My interior boasts a melded mortuary of past selves. The flaming licks of liberation have charred the upholstery and left smoke damage on the walls. But the plants, my god the plants! Have you heard of this forest fire phenomenon? A technique of slashing and burning to clear fields for agriculture or in the long term, enrich soil for new cultivation? The remnants of my inferno, doused following desperation, have grown to enormous proportions. They take root in the carpet and line the ceilings with verdure. I can pick from the fruits of their labor to nourish the acrid of my scalded soul. There is new life amongst the branches and I climb each limb for a better view from the top. To see goodness grown from my fervor is enough to contain this conflagrant culprit for now but it's always brushfire season in the back of my mind.
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