Never could resist putting my fingers in the flame. All the warnings in the world didn't stop me. Never.

When I was 3 I touched the hot element in the oven. It was orange. It was pretty. I remember. Didn't stop me.

When I was older I ran into lit cigarettes with some frequency- it didn't help that I was always moving, and most of the adults in my life smoked. I remember. It didn't stop me.

When I was older still, I stared into kilns as they blew gas flame into the night. Glowing and full of destructive and constructive power. I listened to them roar. They radiated heat in the desert air. I remember. It didn't stop me.

And then there is the metaphorical fires. Many, many of them. Still with them. Still in me. Just keep looking at those flames, and wondering if this time I will get burned. Or if this time I will get away with it, unscathed, and with a belly full of adrenaline. I remember. It hasn't stopped me.