ashes among constellations

It was a pleasure to burn.

Not in that itchy manner of red stained skin from staying out in the sun a little too long, and not with the black crisped remains of dinner that didn't get taken out of the oven, or even from fingertips skimming over hot metal.

No, this was a rollicking flame, which blew smoke into my eyes, and ash underneath my nails, and spat out sparks quicker than any insult that had ever been thrown my way.

They will call it arson and tragedy, give out synonyms of sadness and despair. They will cry out laments for what could have been. They will forget my name in the same breaths that blow out the fires of children like me.

It was a pleasure to burn, because now my ashes will dance among constellations, and my sparks will be carried by the wind, and my life will have been red hot and filled with energy.

It was a pleasure to burn because if I burned, I couldn't be extinguished.

(Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451)