It begins with a spark. The tangled undergrowth of nerves quickly ignites. As the flames spread and intensify, deeply rooted fears begin to combust. The winds of uncertainty carry the fire from neuron to neuron, incinerating reason and clouding judgement in a smoky haze. A chemical reaction out of control, self-perpetuating and all-consuming.
But then a gentle voice blows the flames back on themselves. Soothing words fall like curtains of rain. The firestorm’s advance is halted, its ferocious power stifled. It exhausts its fuel supply and diminishes, until all that remains is a lingering smog.
Within this grey miasma, the world is quiet and numb. The ashes throb with lingering heat. But the cool rain keeps these smouldering vestiges in check, and an encouraging breeze lifts the shroud of smoke. It will take time for things to return to the way they were before the firestorm, but this is a natural cycle, repeated since time immemorial. There will be future firestorms, and in the throes of each it will feel like the end of the world. But each will eventually subside, and the Earth will spin on.