#boiling pot

The pot beginning to cook, gentlemen?

Come rest by the fire~

It was a moment later, when I heard the whistling coming from the room.  There was so much that was to see, it was easy to forget the surroundings so close to me.  The mysteries that are right in front of my eyes.   It occurred to me at that moment, that I had never watched my pot come to a boil.  A strange thing to come to think about, but I imagined what it would be like to see something I had not seen.  

The oil swirled loosely around the kettle, the water dancing with it, a slow rhythm that was hard to keep a beat to.  The oil and water danced for a while, slowly, lovingly, but never quite as close as they could be.  They were so different, after all.   The dance, so sweet and innocent, began to heat up.  The slow dance turned to a quick two-step, leaving.  A tango of sorts.  There was something interesting about the way the water and oil moved together.  In unison.  The passion, the life, but something wasn’t right.  It never would be.   Nothing lasted forever.   Soon after their heated bout of passion, there was a break.  The water began to swirl in an opposing direction, the oil chasing after it.  Nothing compared to being left on the dance floor.  But water was always one for the dramatic.   There!  A bubble, one, then two.  The water was fighting, explosively telling the oil that it wasn’t meant to be.  The oil wanted to retaliate, but needed to be pushed just a bit more.   Water did exactly that.  The oil, detonating on the spot, whistled and howled, crying for water.  Water turned, still boiling with anger.