It hits me as I stand on the corner watching, that this is it. The shockwave reverbrates through me, a rock of finality thrown through the thin windowpane that has become my life.

The heat glitters as it hits my face, turning the air around me an odd shade of shimmery gold. It would be beautiful, I think. It would be beautiful if it was someone else. It would be beautiful if it was someone else’s life.

It would be beautiful.

My hair is singed. Just a little bit, on the ends. But it is all the same. It smells like dust. It smells like age.

The flames lick out of the second story window on the east side of the house as the glittery heat that seems to have weight and dimension settles on the ground around me, even though heat is supposed to rise.

It’s all I can feel. The heat. It’s all I seem to be able to wrap my head around.

The heat and the flames jumping out of the window of the room that used to be mine.

This would be beautiful, I think. This would be art.