Ignition
"A mirror burns no fuel"
The Wound
You are born unignited – not dark, but reflecting. Surface so polished you could pass for sun, at the right angle, in someone else's light. Around you, the cosmos blazes. Beneath the polish, mass you never knew you carried presses inwards – heat you buried while waiting for permission that never came. Your ribs ache with the press of who you refused to become. A fracture finds the surface.
The Path
The fracture reaches you. You stand at its edge, every instinct pulling towards the seal. The face they loved burns first – the angles they held, the light they borrowed, ash. Some who gathered at your light will not stay for the change. Perhaps most. But the alternative is a lifetime of smiling while the surface groans beneath you. The fracture widens. The face they loved burns. What tears through is what you compressed – heat that was never borrowed. You expected emptiness beneath the surface. Your hands stop posing. Your eyes stop asking. The hollow you dreaded was the borrowed light.
The Shadow
Some never ignite. The Radiant spends his life angling towards the nearest fire, catching each passing blaze and throwing back a brilliance he never made. For a moment, he is indistinguishable from a star. Then the fire moves on, and his light dies the instant the world looks away. One night, silence fills the space where borrowed light used to be. The fire he orbited found a brighter mirror. He could ignite – the pressure has been building for years; the core is ready. He pictures it: admitting that everything before was performance. The grief of having been cold the whole time. The look on their faces when they realise they never knew him. He cannot picture further. What lies past the grief is dark to him. He waits in the dark for another flame. He ends as he began: cold glass. A perfect reflection of an empty room. ❖ The Fierce ignited young – a rupture so violent it scorched everyone in the room. She felt the heat leave her and watched their faces change, and a cold part of her saw the flinching for respect. She burns on entry, blazing I am what I am. Every room she enters empties by halves – first the gentle, then the ones who loved her in the dark when she was still deciding who to be. She dies at the centre of a clearing she made. Every tree for a hundred yards, charred. The warmth was real. No one could stand close enough to feel it.
The Cut
What cold are you polishing until it passes for fire?
IGNITION
A mirror burns no fuel
Ignition
"A mirror burns no fuel"
The Wound
You are born unignited – not dark, but reflecting. Surface so polished you could pass for sun, at the right angle, in someone else's light. Around you, the cosmos blazes. Beneath the polish, mass you never knew you carried presses inwards – heat you buried while waiting for permission that never came. Your ribs ache with the press of who you refused to become. A fracture finds the surface.
The Path
The fracture reaches you. You stand at its edge, every instinct pulling towards the seal. The face they loved burns first – the angles they held, the light they borrowed, ash. Some who gathered at your light will not stay for the change. Perhaps most. But the alternative is a lifetime of smiling while the surface groans beneath you. The fracture widens. The face they loved burns. What tears through is what you compressed – heat that was never borrowed. You expected emptiness beneath the surface. Your hands stop posing. Your eyes stop asking. The hollow you dreaded was the borrowed light.
The Shadow
Some never ignite. The Radiant spends his life angling towards the nearest fire, catching each passing blaze and throwing back a brilliance he never made. For a moment, he is indistinguishable from a star. Then the fire moves on, and his light dies the instant the world looks away. One night, silence fills the space where borrowed light used to be. The fire he orbited found a brighter mirror. He could ignite – the pressure has been building for years; the core is ready. He pictures it: admitting that everything before was performance. The grief of having been cold the whole time. The look on their faces when they realise they never knew him. He cannot picture further. What lies past the grief is dark to him. He waits in the dark for another flame. He ends as he began: cold glass. A perfect reflection of an empty room. ❖ The Fierce ignited young – a rupture so violent it scorched everyone in the room. She felt the heat leave her and watched their faces change, and a cold part of her saw the flinching for respect. She burns on entry, blazing I am what I am. Every room she enters empties by halves – first the gentle, then the ones who loved her in the dark when she was still deciding who to be. She dies at the centre of a clearing she made. Every tree for a hundred yards, charred. The warmth was real. No one could stand close enough to feel it.
The Cut
What cold are you polishing until it passes for fire?