Everything around the fire has melted into the dark, and with eyes wide and staring I’m drawn into the flames and shimmering coals, which shift as fresh logs are pushed into the fire’s centre. Flames rage away from the base and unfurl beseechingly towards the stars and moon, held in place by the fuel and unable to escape.
Then, fuel spent, the flames die.
It’s mesmerising, and hot despite the settling dew and open sky, and I’m wondering if that’s what it’s like to be different or misunderstood.
Odd, but that’s exactly what I was thinking on Sunday evening of the Queen’s birthday long weekend in front of an open fire just outside Orroroo. At the same time – give or take a few hours – something harrowing and sorrowful was happening in Orlando.
There’s so much religion and Godliness, yet attempts to understand difference are vacuous or deliberately obtuse. We all think we’re so much better than everyone else.
It’s strange and tear-inducing that we rage against marriage for same-sex couples – a celebration of love – and yet things like the child sex trade, for example, draw little oxygen.
This knowing; being tied to aspects of yourself that draw hate, but make you who you are, is inescapable but you settle into it. You burn and shimmer with the rest of the coal – all the same, but different in ways that outnumber the stars.