I’ve been thinking of fire. As an analogy. Not in terms of anything. But in terms of me, of myself.
And how others, as fuel, if you will, affect me. React with me.
I am the fire.
Some may be gasoline, causing a pyre that burns fast and furious, but dies out rather quickly, leaving only ashes in their wake.
Some may be wet or green wood, burning poorly and creating a lot of smoke, with no real substance.
Some may be kindling, twigs and leaves, that start the fire, but can’t possibly sustain it, without something more substantial.
Some may just be water, that put out the fire completely.
And some, a very rare few, may be the finest seasoned wood, the kind that burns brightly, cleanly, with sharp, licking flames, and an unrivaled heat, that warms one completely no matter how you face it.
The latter, I have found, is the best fuel for my fire. I am a passionate person. My passion encompasses my entire life. It feeds my purpose, my being, all that I am. Without passion, I am nothing. I cannot conceive of a life without passion.
She is as passionate as I am. On a much less intense level. She is careful, thoughtful, less inclined to be reactive. She is the well seasoned wood that feeds my fire with a constancy and clarity I’d never thought I would find. Whether that is a raging bonfire or a well-banked hearth fire, she provides the fuel, when and where needed, that sustains me, in a way no one ever has, or has ever understood.
If I must make an analogy (and this may be one of many, I don’t know), this one works for me. Fire, as an analogy, for me, for this, works just fine.