It was a pleasure to burn.
The first line of Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 sums us up well. Combustion is the hidden principle behind everything we do and create. Our civilization has been little more than a subtle glow in the fathomless cosmos, now flaring, and destined to burn low.
Doesn’t take much to see where our species is going. We are the spark and the fuel. We are fire’s real oxygen. Abundant. Reactive. Explosive. We build. We burn. We propagate. We incinerate. We believe. We blaze. Ultimately unchanged from our first flames kindled on verdant, primordial plains.
We still offer nothing but burnt offerings. Sending heat and smoke rising, supplicants to celestial forces, divinities we can’t divine. Appealing to far distant deities to hear us, heed us, heal us.
The only answer given us: heat death.
In the end, combustion reduces everything to embers. Our things, our beings, even our prayers. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. It is our nature. The brightest candle burns twice as fast.
So, let us be bright. Brilliant. To ignite. To forge. A supernova that seeds the greater galaxy.
And as surely as we flame on, we will eventually flame out. The burning how and when our final pleasure.
