A thematic glimpse of the series.
Flames flicker because they’re not at home. All fire—from the candle to the conflagration to the rising and the setting of the sun—is exiled fire struggling to burn its way home.
Few who find home live to tell of it, of course. I think that to find home would be to arrive in the place that resonates with the centre of who we are. This means that to find home would be to first realise who we truly are. Unfortunately, most honest souls we meet are lost unto themselves, waiting eagerly or anxiously for someone to tell them who they are.
We are all exiles, told from youth that the stars of heaven hold the keys to our home. But when we reach for the stars—reach for our ideals of virtue, wisdom and peace—and ask for the keys to our home, we never seem to receive an answer, let alone the keys. We only gather further questions and encounter locked doors.
Wandering beneath the silent stars on frigid, rainy nights, we light comforting campfires that remind us of a home we’ve never seen. If exiles like ourselves exist, then there must be a centre, an identity, that we are exiled from … the home that lies at the end of our exodus.
Let us be still now and listen keenly for those whispered rumours of home that are oh-so easy to miss. Listen to those fickle, flickering lights created by wind and wood. Listen, for they are symbols of that hallowed counterpoint of heaven and earth.
