The Singe of Memory
The smell of kerosene always pulls me back to the damp concrete of my childhood courtyard. It is a sharp, oily scent that clings to the back of the throat, metallic and ancient. When the flame finally catches, there is a sudden, dry heat that prickles the skin of your forearms, a warning that the air has become something else entirely. It is not just warmth; it is a frantic, living pulse that demands you pay attention. We are drawn to the flicker because it mimics the way our own nerves fire—unpredictable, bright, and hungry. There is a specific tension in the muscles when you stand near a source of heat, a bracing of the shoulders as if to protect the soft parts of the body from the wildness of the glow. We carry these embers inside us, long after the wick has been extinguished. Does the heat ever truly leave the marrow, or are we just waiting for the next spark to remind us we are still burning?
Rizwan Hasan has captured this visceral heat in his work titled Fire of Soul. The way the light dances against the dark feels like a physical touch on the skin. Can you feel the warmth radiating from the page?
