white light

And like that the once dark room is alive with light.  Where have you been hiding my creative gnome?  My brilliant little bastard that dances about my mind with the grace of a jack hammer.  Perchance the rub that does you silent is the one that is known by many as happiness.  I was thinking today that she could never be in my shadow for she is the essence of my light.  One push will require two pulls as a kind word seems to be the act of petting a turtle.  The sanctity of a shell is really not much different than the brown blanket that surrounds the ice in my glass.  The fire that we start is meant to warm us yet we are the greatest bastard when attempting to control its wild flicker.  There is as much success in owning a flame as there is in owning the wild mustang that tramples the softest parts of your heart.  Sure, you may contain it for a moment but that does not make its essence yours.  Some say that to warm your cold hands before turning to the tenebrous chill of the night is the proper course of action, that the saddle is no accessory for this majestic.   Previously the tactic had been to set myself ablaze in hopes of matching the ferocity of the flame, a tactic that no doubt left me charred with regret.  I believe my only recourse is to sit close to the wild swirl of orange and blue, provide it with the fuel that it needs to not only sustain its burn but to grow and enjoy every bit of heat that it provides.