WildFire

By Lataurus Black

“Be careful.”

The small voice in the back of my skull whispers, sharp and insistent, like the crackle of distant flames. It’s a voice I’ve learned not to ignore, though I can’t say if it’s mine or something else entirely. “Be careful,” it warns again, “about the sparks that live inside us.”

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. The air smells of smoke and ash, and the horizon glows faintly, as if the world itself is holding its breath. The voice is right—I’ve seen what happens when those sparks ignite. They don’t just burn; they consume.

But how do you stop a fire that’s already inside you?

Maybe that’s why we follow words that are empty—without reason, without cause. Like a coat hanging in the closet, waiting for a spring that never comes, there are no stories for the fabric to tell. No texture for the leaves in a forest that’s still growing. No matter the bang, no matter the planets that spin inside us, we are drawn to the void, searching for meaning in the silence.

And yet.

As I stand in the charred remains of the forest, haunted by the memory of the fire, I think of her. The way she looked at me, her eyes unpacking every part of me without words. Her touch held a deeper connection, one that the flames couldn’t burn away. It was as if she could see the sparks inside me—the ones I tried so hard to hide—and instead of pulling back, she reached closer.

Now, surrounded by ash and the faint scent of smoke, I wonder if that’s what love is: not the absence of fire, but the courage to stand in its heat and not be consumed.

Hearts are not meant to be alone. They are fires—wild and untamed, burning with a heat that can both destroy and heal. Like the flames that sweep through a forest, leaving ash in their wake, they clear the way for new growth. But we, in our fear, try to contain them. We build homes where we shouldn’t, hiding behind walls that displace the very nature we depend on. We forget that the ground beneath our feet is not solid, unyielding stone, but something far more fragile—something alive, like kindling waiting for a spark.

And yet, even as we try to control the fire within us, it refuses to be tamed. It burns, not to destroy, but to remind us of what we are: part of the land, part of the cycle, part of something greater than ourselves.

It’s a lesson I now understand, though it came at a cost. I grapple with the loss of love, with the ache of feeling too much and yet never wanting to feel again. The love I once had slipped away in the middle of the night, her mind already gone, her body trailing behind like an afterthought. She left nothing behind, but footsteps pressed into the rusted leaves, fragile imprints on the soil of a world that continues to turn, indifferent to my pain.

In the aftermath, I found solace in the land. My spiritual connection to the earth became a sanctuary, a place to heal. I let my tears fall freely, each drop moistening the roots of my soul, feeding the seeds of a new self-struggling to grow. Please don’t feel sorry for me, I tell myself, even as I watch my fire fade into smoke, rising and dissipating into the indifferent sky.

And yet, how can I not think of the others? The hearts without homes, the tents that line the streets of California like scars on the face of a broken city. Since 1980, the crisis has been there, visible yet ignored. We pass by these faces, hardening ourselves to their vulnerability, to the delicate forms of love and care that nature itself teaches us to embrace.

It’s been five years since my flame ignited. In that time, I’ve learned about nutrient cycling—how each burn clears away dead vegetation, destroys harmful microbes, and makes way for new life. But it wasn’t just the land that needed healing. The fire she left behind burned through me too, leaving me questioning if I was a good person, if I was worthy of love. In the heat of that pain, I couldn’t see the parts of my soul that fed from the flames, releasing their seeds, preparing to grow again.

And yet, even as I tried to rebuild, she struck again. A one-star review on my business, an attempt to destroy what little I had left. As a provider for my family, I dreamed of making a castle out of ashes. But her actions turned that dream into a nightmare, chipping away at my hope until I wondered if I could rise again.

To be a better person. A better father. A better lover. In our essence, fire plays a vital role, not just in the health of the land, but in our own renewal. It burns away what no longer serves us, leaving space for what can grow.

Life, like seeds, is a cycle of healing and scars. I’ve gone back and forth, afraid of the wind, thinking it’s the only way a fire spreads. I didn’t look underground at the hot spots that smoldered in the dark, keeping me awake at night. I protected my oxygen, my fuel, my heat, clinging to the fear that if I let go, the flames would consume me.

But now, I stand here, my eyes fixed on the flames in the distance. The small voice in the back of my mind whispers, “Be careful.” It’s the same voice that warned me years ago, the one I ignored. This time, I listen.

With my heart open, I know that I’m ready again ready to give myself to the heat of the flames. As I stand in the burn, my hands cradle the ashes like a cup, holding the remnants of the old version of me. A person I no longer recognize, their flaws no longer rotting away with time but transformed into something new.

I tumble over the question: How do you stop the fire that burns inside of you? And the truth is, you cannot. The human body is made of 50–75% water, a balance to the fire within. That water nourishes the seeds of our minds, our bodies, our emotions. It quenches the thirst of growth, even as the flames remind us of what we’ve lost and what we’ve gained.

There is beauty in what comes after the burning. A quiet hope lingers in the air, a reminder that each morning your eyes open is a gift. The peaceful sunlight greets you without judgment, indifferent to your pain or the tears that fall like morning dew. The dew surprises your skin with its cold touch, a remnant of the night’s wind that lingers, waiting to fan the flames inside you once more.

And then, she steps into the rusted footprints left behind, erasing what was once a scar—a reminder of love’s pain, a reason to avoid matches and flames. But here she is, entering my eyes, entering my mind, reigniting the fire I thought I’d extinguished. She breathes life into my oxygen, fuels my heat, and I wonder if this is what it means to burn again.

To a man that stands here with no heart or voice even the tilt of the rain looks like fingertips point out into the distances as if space and time are creating fireworks that sparkling the imagination of possibility.

The possibility of finding myself. The possibility of letting go and finding her. She waits in the distance, patient and still, as if she knows the gates I’ve built will open in time. And when they do, she will step inside, her presence a velvet shadow brushing against the edges of my soul, a reminder of what once was and what could be again.

But to let her in is to walk among shadows and death, to face the parts of myself I’ve buried beneath the ashes. Can I bear the weight of her presence, or will the fire she reignites consume me once more?

I question if my heart is truly ready again. Her smile is printed on the back of my eyelids, a vivid image that lingers every time I close my eyes. She feeds me the power of love, the power of belief, even as I wonder if I can trust those feelings again.

Like boats rocking in a storm-tossed sea, my emotions churn and collide. The waves rise and fall, threatening to pull me under, and yet—she is the eye of the storm, the calm where my mind finds peace. She is the morning before the sunrise, the quiet moment before the world awakens. She is the peace in the birds’ songs, greeting the silence of the dust.

She is the wheat growing in fields of weeds, teaching the world how to survive even when darkness covers the land. And still, she stands in the burn, a testament to resilience, a reminder that even from ashes, life can grow.

Even as the world places tariffs over the entry of love, she waits—patient, unwavering, willing to pay the price. While the world pushes to open protected forests, cutting down trees, sweeping away leaves, and destroying trails, her heart needs no path to find me. She stands there, leaving her imprint on my mind, her presence a quiet defiance against the abstract wall that sits between us.

Another morning. Last night, I found myself not sleeping but dreaming—of holding conversations over a warm fire, of two people cradling steaming cups of coffee, their lips brushing the rims as a slight smile follows each crackle of the flames.

How many days have I watched time pass by as she watches me from a distance, her smile glowing like embers? She dances, her beautiful skin catching the light of the burn, a real-life Mona Lisa. A work of art for a man who has given up on love.

And yet, just like the forest regrowth that shades us in the burn, she reminds me that even from ashes, life can begin again.

With each new footstep I take toward her, I create a path for someone else to follow. Her eyes are even wider now, as if she always knew this moment would come. As her face becomes clearer to me, I realize I know her—but not the world she stands in.

The trees around her are alive, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind. Behind her, a river runs loudly through the canyon, its waters carving a path through the earth. This world is hers, vibrant and untamed, a testament to life’s resilience.

And behind me lies the world I created after the burn—a landscape shaped by loss and renewal, by ashes and the slow, stubborn growth of something new.

Lolo: “You finally came.”

Lataurus: “Yes, I’m here. I owe it to you—you gave me a reason to dream. But why did you wait so long? As days turned to nights and back to days, your smile was the only thing I could make out in the distance. It gave me life.”

Lolo: “I waited because your world wasn’t ready for me to enter. The grounds were still healing, the tides were low, and there was no sun in your clouds. But even then, I could see the beauty in the regrowth of your forest. You might not see it yet, but as far as your eyes can see in my world, this is the renewal after the burn.”

I pause as I look around her world. The wind here feels different—lighter, freer—as it brushes the tips of the leaves. Even her flowers seem to play in the breeze, dancing like children running through an open field, leaping and laughing. For a moment, the leaves forget they are leaves, caught up in the joy of the wind’s embrace.

Before I can say a word, she speaks.

Lolo: “Take my hand and wake up. Enter my world. You’ve let your heart sleep for far too long, holding onto the burn, not letting your sun fully rise to nurture the seeds that lie asleep in your land. Give me your hands.”

She asks again, her voice soft but insistent. “Please, close your eyes and give me your hands.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, I extend my hands without fear. Her touch is warm, and she places something inside them—something light yet full of promise.

“Now open your eyes and look,” she says.

I slowly open my eyes, my vision adjusting to the light. In my hands, I see water, oxygen, and the sun, their colors vibrant and alive.

Lolo: “With these tools, place them onto your heart and begin to breathe life into your world. Forgive yourself. Forgive others. Let the water shape the world around you, let its raging rivers cut through the pain, carving new mountains for your heart to explore. Let it clear the burn and rust that live inside you, feeding the seeds you’ve planted after the fire.

“Let the oxygen breathe new life into your mind, into the silhouette of mountains, so the child inside you can play once again. And let the sunshine over every corner of darkness that hides in your mind, waiting to steal your joy. Let the open fields fill with grass, replacing the dirt and ash with love.

“So, you can build up the strength to wake up and feel love once again.”

She pauses, her eyes searching mine. “Can you feel it?”

My face is wet with tears as my heart inhales her words, my lungs filling with hope.

Lataurus: “Yes,” I say, envisioning her words living inside me. For the first time in years, my hands feel the warmth of hope. I know I gave up—it was the easiest road to take. Why search for a path to life when it’s easier to lay in the burn and let the days go by? To sit and blame others until time runs out. To live in past pain, to find comfort in the unchanging burn, to live without hope of finding love.

But as you sat at the edge of my world, looking in without words, your presence was like hope itself. Even as I pretended you weren’t real, you waited, seeing something in me that was lost to the fire.”

I pause, my voice trembling. “Why did you wait, knocking at my door?”

Lolo smiles, her eyes holding a secret she’s been waiting to share. She looks deeper into me, her gaze piercing through the walls I’ve built.

Lolo: “Give me your hands, just this one last time. Close your eyes and reach into my world. Tell me you’re ready—not with words from your lips, but from the soil of your heart.”

I close my eyes, reaching into the warmth once more. She takes my hands and places them on her heart.

Lolo: “Count to ten with me and slowly open your eyes. Let go of everything in this world.”

I nod, and she begins.

Lolo: “One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten.”

I slowly open my eyes to find myself sitting in a kitchen. The radio plays Al Green’s “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart,” and the scent of smoke still lingers in the air. The forest was my prison, but this kitchen—this home—is my sanctuary. The smoke reminds me of where I’ve been, but the warmth of her hands tells me where I belong.

Lataurus: “What… what is this?” I ask, confused.

Lolo: “Home.”

Lataurus: “But how? What was that before?”

Lolo: “Before was real, just like this home is real.”

Her words hang in the air as I try to make sense of it all. She holds my hands tightly, a tear breaking free from her eyes.

Lolo: “Before, I was inside you. For years, I tried to break free from the past, to step out of the rubble and come home. I lived in the burn, talking to your spirit, never giving up even when the world around you were nothing but ashes. I saw what water could reveal the moment I touched your spirit. I knew love lived deep inside you, even when you couldn’t see it. You were missing water and oxygen, but I never stopped believing in you.”

Holding her hands, I feel free from my past. Looking into her eyes—eyes that don’t judge me, eyes that see the good in me—I whisper:

Lataurus: “Thank you… for being my sun. I love you.”

As I sit in the kitchen, the radio playing softly, I feel a strange mix of relief and disbelief. Is this real, or is it another dream? But her hands in mine feel solid, grounding me in this moment. She was my sun, my water, my oxygen—the force that breathed life back into my world when I thought all was lost.

The scent of smoke still fills my nose, a reminder of the burn that once consumed me. But now, it feels different—less like a scar and more like a memory. The forest may have been my prison, but this kitchen, this home, is where I’ve finally found peace.

Lolo: “Can you feel it?” she asks, her voice soft but steady.

I nod, with one hand covering my heart. “Yes. I can feel it. I’m home.”

Wildfire.