The Burning of the Gaspee
Charles DeWolf Brownell, 1892.
I’ve been burning lots tributes these days as a part of tradition and ritual from my origins and culture.
I don’t mind it at all, other than the environmental repercussions – of course, I just think that the nonstop, drowning raindrops serve as an extreme oxymoron to the fire I was trying to feed and maintain that eats and severs everything into nothing but ashes.
Then, darling, I, unsurprisingly and in an uninspiring fashion, thought of you again.
Surely you don’t, and can’t mind, especially since you are unaware of this fact.
I used to (and I suppose I still catch myself doing it from time to time now) want to burn the entirety of you into my mind. I craved, no, I needed to brand you into my head. I couldn’t bear to forget any part, even the most trivial tidbits.
I think I’ll always miss you in a fleeting manner.
I don’t wonder if you ever think of me, even if it is just once in a blue moon, because it honestly doesn’t matter. It’s not like you cared that much about me to do anything or salvage it, anyway.
What is significant was that our loves, efforts, and memories will eventually reduce into nothing but ashes. The fire engulfed the entirety of what we built together, and it leaves nothing behind.
The fire is cruel, the fire is kind, the fire turns everything into indecipherable rubble.
Then we’re reborn after.