Each of us, at some point or another, have stared down the monster in the mirror. We look beyond the skin and the guts—look through them—and size up the very bones that hold us up. Who built this skeleton? Who is its creator?
Because surely I was not a mere accident? Surely, somewhere, someone planned this. Planned me.
But what if we’re asking the wrong question? Perhaps, rather than who am I, the question is actually, what will I burn for?
What we yearn for is a life that will break the bones in the mirror. A life that will snap them in half—grind them into dust—and rebuild them into something better. Something blinding. We want to fall into the final sleep knowing that we burned.
Burned with love—burned with pity and hate and everything in between. We want to burn for things both small and large, meaningful and meaningless. We want to smile at the dawn and then again in the wake of the dying sun.
We want to burn through life, taking a bit of the universe down with us and using it to scorch our names across the earth. Burn, burn, burn.
Because maybe then even the stars will see us.