Twenty-plus years ago, I read Jack London's To Build a Fire. I'd forgotten the title and author until recently. I only remembered a small but significant part of the story, how the protagonist repeatedly attempts but ultimately fails to build himself a fire while traversing a frozen, snow-covered landscape. And, he freezes to death.

I'd remembered that he'd started a fire or almost started one a few times. Then, before the story ends, he'd found shelter beneath a snow covered tree. Using the last of his fire-starting resources, he was able to start a fire to keep him warm(and alive). But, snow fell from the branches above and extinguished the fire. He froze to death.

I don't know why I remembered a story I read once in a middle school English class, but I did. (Thanks to the power of google I quickly figured out the author and the title.)

It really seems like for the past seven years I've been traversing a desolate, frozen landscape, desperately trying to start a fire to keep myself alive. Sometimes it seems like I've been able to start one; small, only a spark, rather minuscule tendrils of flame and smoke only to be suffocated by some soul crushing blast of arctic wind. Sometimes it'd seem like I'd come across another soul out there, someone to help me. I could smell the smoke of a fire; I could see their silhouette; I could hear their voice; I could almost feel their touch. But, it was only speciously illusory.

Presently, in this moment, this frozen h3ll where I exist, I'm under that tree, a deceptive shelter from storming winds. I'm here half frozen to death, trying to start a fire through sheer force of thought; rather, nonexistent pyrokinesis.