I had a dream once, A dream I felt I already knew, like the old strains of a song heard years ago at the mother’s knee. I dreamt of a lit candle in the centre of a darkness, nothing else, just a tiny flickering light in the inky, all surrounding darkness. Now, watch. Watch as the fire flickers, and dances. Spinning and twirling in the all-consuming dark. Watch how it shines throughout the darkness and lights it up.
Keep watching and don’t forget:
Watch as the fire begins to burn brighter, it begins to grow, slowly at first, then faster and faster until soon it becomes a burning fire, the size of a house. It grows larger still, till it is a fire storm, forming a whirlpool, its tendrils stretch out, flicking through the darkness. The fire is now a burning maelstrom, burning bright all around. It envelops the dark. It roars all around swirling, round and round and round. Then in the middle it starts to clear. A circle appears in the centre of the flames, a few spirals of flame form in the middle and slowly build, gradually forming a bird, its whole body a single glowing flame. It flapped it’s powerful wings and shoots skywards, arching its back and soaring upwards, it screeches, as the last echoes of its screams echo die away, the ground shakes and transforms, as I watch, seas explode from nowhere, the sky changes colour, mountains rise, the earth racks and deserts form, vast forests and jungles form. All manner of trees and foliage sprout around me. The flaming bird rises, shooting skywards, faster and faster it rises until it is nothing but a speck above but its light still shines bright upon the earth. The fire itself withdraws, shooting backwards until it has returned to its original form, nought but a speck of light, a mere pinprick. And then even that fades, the only sign of the cleansing fire is the glowing orb resting in the sky, heating the earth, the last remnants of the fire bird.