Coals on the inside

Emotionally, I’m about as drained as one can be, without simply keeling over dead. Spending day after day after day just being little more than alive, constantly searching for a solution that cost more than my heart can afford, is like a desiccant for my... me. I have these little fires in me somewhere, but I can never quite track them down. I know they’re burning and sometimes, on good days, I can even see a wisp or two of smoke, but then it’s gone. If I could just find one, I’d stoke the flames as high as I could.

Yet, I know what that means. 

If I cannot handle the flames, then I will be consumed by the conflagration. Some form of me might remain, but it won't be me. It will just be a husk of me, working through the motions of a genuine life. Eventually, I will wear down and scatter. I'll end up becoming the nothing I already believe I am. 

If, on the other hand, I can withstand the fire, watching it lick across my presence, finding the edges, darkening them, making them sharper, I might move something, somewhere. 

Like an ant moving a mountain. 

Before I'm sure I'm not that ant, I might as well try to prove I am, when I reach the other side of whatever awaits me. Maybe then, I'll find some of those fires that I know are smoldering somewhere deep inside.