We keep ourselves warm at night during the long winter of our rebellion, by burning the promises once made in the springtime of our innocence.

It is not a comforting radiance however, but rather a fever dream that burns us from the inside out, consuming what we once were, and leaving only the cold burned out shell of a man, a woman, a sad shadow of our former self.

How sad that we swallow the self-told lies that would tell us that this end state is somehow preferable to that which we surrendered and cut off.

Darkness and Light, Day and Night, the difference is clear to anyone who stands on the outside looking in, yet we ourselves are blinded by a pride we simply will not admit.

The pride that refuses to allow us to admit our own mistaken choice.

The pride that will drive us eventually to a damned existence, cold and alone. Eventually we will run out of logs to feed the flames and the fire will die, leaving only the brittle ashes of our love, the empty soot of broken promises, and shattered dreams.

Go ahead then and toss another one on, the fire looks a bit hungry.