He who refuses to burn... gets burned.

I am a grain of sand standing on this emotional rock, staring into a universe that holds my destiny. I see nothing in front of me but what is in my hands, it is neither faith, nor fear. Blank pieces of paper with the imprint of something that looks like it could be a map land at my feet. If I shade it lightly enough will I be able to follow the road and find the hidden treasure that I keep hearing about? Or will I press down to hard, blackening the creases in the paper until they disappear, and I am once again left to stare cluelessly into the stars of my Great Grandmothers eyes asking for her guidance.
I was told to follow the light, and that if the flame gets to hot, to remove my hand. My faithless mind tells me that the flame is the light, and there is no fucking way I am walking through that fire... Pressing down on the hot coals of my past will surely leave scars that will never heal. As the sweat from my brow singes into my skin, I am left with a mind of potential, nothing but boiled up ideas for other people to make their own, and conquer the world... Will there be a collage of pictures streaming into each other on a movie screen on a stage, where people cry and tell happy stories about my short meaningless existence? Ending up a worn out picture on my Mother's refrigerator with some shitty yellow ribbon attached to it?

It would be stupid of me to think that fear not lay in an empty hand, I would be dead by my own hand if that were truly the case. With fear laying heavy, yet invisible to my unconsciously awake thoughts, I tremble down an unknown path. The engraved pages blowing erratically behind me, as the winds of change place them gently into the fire, vanishing for what may be an eternity... . I walked around the fire as to not get hurt, but hurt myself just as much by not putting it out as I passed.