My body is so abused.

I don't sleep unless I collapse, I eat sporadically, I rarely exercise.

I am a mess and I'm to apathetic to change.

Borrowed words and burrowed words.

There is a beauty in fire, man is forever fascinated by it. The giver of life and mother to modern civilisation some might say. Fire is both friend and foe, a tool which when directed correctly enables man to make nature his own. But if not respected this tool will just as easily bite it's masters hand than those he would use it against. Even today for all our advances we are still reliant on fire. On heat and light to prove our mastery over nature.

I sit here next to a fire which I made using wood that I cut into kindling. The delicate arrangement of materials, the strike of the match. This fire grew under my care until I deemed it safe to simply contain it. The steady burn of the embers and the flare of the flames as it eagerly lapped at the food given to it. I choose fire instead of light bulbs. I burn it hotter than I had before, air and wood devoured in copious amounts drives the temperature higher and higher. Driving away he darkness.

But I'm still cold. I feel my bones warm but a coldness grips my chest. It's cruel to say it but I've never felt warmer than when I was wrapped in your arms.

The reality is I'm cold. And no fire has warmed this chill.