Week One I wrote about going down in flames. You said that we couldn’t go on like this, that peeling away my lies like skins that had hardened around my body was condemned and we were doomed to be finite. I wanted to feed the flame and burn you into morning – we could light up at dawn and fill the lake with our acrid smoke. I threw a middle finger to the environment and guzzled fossil fuels to keep us combusting because I figured if the space got just hot enough between us I could go nuclear with you.
Last night I started looking into renewable resources. I dug through the earth with my fingers in search of oil, waiting for it to blacken my fingertips so that I could sleep without worrying about our sustainability and I came up heavy with dirt, but out of luck. And so we flickered.
Tonight I tried not to shiver as our embers shuddered – I warmed my hands on the last of us and tried to remember what it felt like to be unlit. I had forgotten that the northern nights are cold.
Tomorrow I will dam our rivers. I will erect windmills on the plateaus of our conversation and set them spinning. I will prove to you that we don’t have to light up the late nights – you will learn to take me in like the sunrise.