It's 3:03am. That means something.

The witching hour. The time when the veil is thinnest, when magic falls like moonlight across the world and secrets reveal themselves, late night mayhem finally considers heading off to bed, and the fire in the hearth finally cools to a pile of burning embers amidst ash from what the previous evening consumed.

Except in this hearth. Except this fire. Except this hour.

Right now, the fire's still warm. I know; I just added another log to it - the most dense one I've ever lifted, which was a feat in and of itself. But it was effortless; not just easy, but liberating... it was asking to be burned. When the fire is truth, and the logs are the weight you've been carrying for a lifetime without realizing it... burning isn't destruction. It's freedom.

I burn for truth. I always have. Now, I burn for freedom, too.

Because... they're really one and the same, aren't they?

...

I'll let the silence answer that one.