Rising

A Phoenix must turn to ash, before rising from the flames, rejuvenated. As it turns out, I am a fucking Phoenix.
I was a bright flame once. When worry replaces everything else, everything eventually goes gray. Dreams dull. The vibrant feathers you once wore fall out one by one. They are left behind as a smoky remnant. They fall slowly at first. So slowly that one might not notice. But as time wears on, they fall more rapidly.
By the time I noticed my own demise, there was almost nothing left of the beautiful, flaming plumage that had once adorned my soul. I flailed about in agony when I realized that I had been anxiously, and absentmindedly blowing out my own flames and plucking the smoldering plumes from my own hide.
Panic set in. I was burning out. Hardly an ember left as a reminder of the roaring fire I used to be.
I screamed at the universe... "Where did I leave myself?"
The question hung all around me, answered only by the smell of a fire left unattended. I fanned the smolders weakly, willing them to spark. But there was nothing left of me to feed the fire.
I lay in a charred heap, watching the last faintly glowing ember turn to gray.
As the darkness closed in around me I closed my eyes, and prepared to fade away. A single tear slipped down my scalded face, and with it a silent plea for just one last flicker of hope.
The soundless tear fell upon the burned vestiges of my wings, and erupted in a torrent of flames. The flames spread quickly, and consumed me, in their white hot mercy. I opened new eyes to see new wings made of roaring fire, where my ruined carcass had been.
A new beginning. A bright new future. Day one. A phoenix reborn.