Playing with Matches

I have this irrational fear of getting into a horrific accident and developing amnesia. So, since I've been old enough to have this irrational fear, I've develop a love/habit of writing, of chronicling my life, my family, my "cult" and friends with the (irrational) reasoning that, when I develop amnesia, I'll have a first-hand account of what my life is supposed to be like.

I'm a fervent believer that everything has a story, that every person deserves to have their voice heard, their side understood. I believe in the written word; that it alone has withstood the test of time across multiple centuries and nationalities through hieroglyphics, sanskrit, letters to tell us what the world was like, what people were like, how they thought and why. I believe in the freedom of speech, regardless if the the speech comes out of passion, hatred or insanity because they provide the insight into what crazy/amazing/ecstatic thoughts our minds are capable of.  

But there are some words that don't have to be seen, words that don't matter. Or rather, words that used to matter, but have since depreciated in value, in substance, in meaning. Such were the words hidden in the front cover of my pink scrapbook. It takes me a minute and I worry that maybe I hid it somewhere else altogether until I find it behind the flyer for our senior year play where I acted as a ghetto-fied clown.

It takes nine and a half matches and 10 minutes. One of the matches snaps and at least two die out before I can even touch them to the thick, sealed envelop. It takes some time because there are at least four pages inside said envelop...and another envelop (I take sealed letters to the extreme). Eventually, the embers I've lit grow to the point where I don't have to hide them from the breeze coming from the lake. I turn the envelop so the flames eat the words from the bottom up until I have to lay it down before I burn my fingers.

When the embers have died, I wait for the regret, for the panic to seep, for me to shout, "What have I done??" and scramble to piece the charred remains together.

Instead, I lean forward, blow, and watch the ashes scatter.