Beside my fire

When the night is darkest we can see the most stars; in the cold clarity of the night. Within the darkest night, we kindle a fire to be a beacon in the blackness. We are held together in the warmth. Sometimes I ask others if I can sit with them at their fire. Sometimes in the summer, strangers come to our bonfire and ask "Can we sit with you for a while? Can we warm ourselves at your fire?" I always say yes.

The beauty of living in the dark is that you describe yourself. In the cold light of day other people describe you. I don't mind that my hair
is thick with the smell of woodsmoke. The campsite is surrounded by beer cans, charred and suspended from our string fence. Whiskey is passed between the brethren. If anybody ever finds me it will be beside the fire because that is where I am, always. I left myself burning on the hills and plains of Somerset, Berkshire and Monmouth, because I am a spark from the divine fire. I am a small part of the deep mystery of creation yet something has gone terribly wrong. When I slip away, when I leave this world with all its troubles, when I finally lay to rest misery, I am going back into the fire so that I might lose myself.

For you there will only be the smouldering remains of last night's fire - hot charcoal and the faint whisper of smoke. I know you don't want me to leave but I can no longer tolerate this. Even my own hands and my words seem so far away. I don't know where this comes from but I am sick - reeling back and staggering from the nightmare. My world is no longer recognisable. When I am gone, remember that I was always an immigrant in the place where you are native and now I seek asylum.

I wanted consolation and perhaps there is comfort for children - we can tell them that we are there with them. But for the rest of us are there
any words of comfort because I know of none? I keep waking from the same dream and realising that you cannot heal.