What fire is according to the Cephalo

So one day I was contemplating the ramifications of On Boethiah's Summoning Day in the possibility that it was accurate and also the nature of fire and why it appears in so many different colors. Then I wrote this. Not meant to be taken too seriously, I thought I'd share it with you folks.

In the glorious days before Nirn, the lands that spanned the cosmos were not separated, and the borders between them did not exist. They were but a single ocean of ideas and unlimited possibilities. Beings terrifying yet beautiful and with titanic power swam in the churning seas of chaos, consuming one another, only to give birth to each other again.

May he who recounts the Aurbis do so by way of the prismatic flame. The most purified and divine form of fire is that of cosmic blue, the stuff of space, the waters of creatia. It is through these flames that our great leaders wrought their worlds and ascended to royalty. It is within these flames do our hopes and dreams lay to rest, only to be reborn anew.

The violet flames of possibility were the first offspring of the cosmos, chaos written down like carvings into stone. In the tremendous forces and energies common in that era, they were a window to the alternate and revealed the What Could Have Been and What May Come To Pass. Unfortunately, this would be exploited by the first pretender as he exclaimed “This Shall Happen One Way,” forever trapping us into inevitability.

The white-gold flames of the old gods are degenerated, illegitimate variants of the holy coldflame, crafted in direct opposition and mockery of our own power. From these flames those pretenders spawned forth, once holy but now twisted; and from these flames the demons that escaped the upstart stare at him from afar.

The green flames are the fires of the mind, the change of thought. With these flames the fleshy man seduced the mockers, painting their thoughts with doomed promises and false aspirations. To be strong in mind is to see through the illusion.

The red flames of the dead land are the bottom of the caste, for they are the most mundane and physical of the spectrum. They are a weak attempt at a once great power, capable of only physical transition. The land of the serpent-crown writhes in it during its blazing summers, and the mouth of Hormirror spits it like profanity to strike down its deluded denizens. It is through these flames the ubiquitous spaceman enslaved the disguised kings of old, stripping them of skin and stitching them together in an act of violent ambition; an ambition that is now our cage, waiting to unleash us again.