Burn the Season

Start by burning the season. Take the keys; there is just enough gas to get far enough up in the hills. The road will turn from gravel to mud, the ruts will be deep and the axles will protest. Take cigarettes if you need them. Take all the useless paper. When you think the car will push no further, you’ll find a meadow. This is as alone as you can get. The stars are wide and distorted here.

In the middle of the meadow, start a fire.

Burn the season. Burn your shadow. Burn under your ancestor’s eyes. When the fire is well and truly ablaze, take off your clothes and toss them in. Let the greasy gasoline smoke coat your skin. Weave a new covering from the altered air surrounding you. From the flames pull out the hottest stones and push them through your chest and into your heart. Your old body will dissipate and a new one will form.

It’s not a resurrection story. It’s not a rebirth story. It’s a story of choice.