My blood has always run rather hot.

Does that surprise you? It probably shouldn’t have if you knew me. My whole life, ponies have remarked on the way I light up the room, the way I brighten things, the way the cadence of my speech or the lilt of my laugh can ignite whole crowds. But I know the truth.

I know that it's a willing burn. The ponies here, much as I love them, can be simple, shallow creatures. They are looking for a chance to be burnt, and for I to burn with them.

Goddess, have I been shallow in my lifetime.

But whatever magnetism I possess, whatever dying embers are in my eyes and mane or soul are but the waning glow of spent tinder versus the inferno that is her. And while I can create sparks that ignite those willing fires, she herself is fire incarnate. She dwarfs them all, she is light itself and I am left scorching, struck dumb by the music of her voice and the mirrored white of her coat. The whole time do I feel lesser in whatever afterglow I am fortunate enough to steal from the flickering trails she leaves in her wake.

But it’s a good lesser. A proud lesser.

After all, how can someone such as I compare to goddess?

How can a single matchstick compare to the sun?