What is so wrong with it?

She sits staring at the fire as it dances around, popping, flinging itself up and out, filling the room with that marvelous smell.

Really, there are only so many blankets in her house. Once again, she has managed to wrap herself in every single one, as they make a warm, fuzzy, static-filled nest around her bare legs. She hasn't brushed her hair in days, again, but it's not like there is anyone to impress. She can't make that fire love her more than it already does. She won't make the hot chocolate hotter by putting on any make-up. She won't make Regina Spektor sing any softer through the stereo by getting dressed.

So there she sits, lost in that fire again.

Of course, it's the redundancy that she loves. This pattern of work, eat, work, wrap up in blankets with hot cocoa and a fire, sleep, repeat... it's dependable. It's constant. It's in her control.

Come on, drink your hot cocoa. All of the marshmallows have melted and it's getting colder.

She's sitting too close to the fire again. Her face is getting hot and she can feel it turning pinker. The blankets are warm, but her back is icy compared to her face. She keeps staring into the fire as if her eyes would turn orange from the exposure. For a moment, she forgets that she has hands that are holding the mug. She forgets about her hair sticking out haphazardly from the quilts. She forgets about her naked legs, which have long-since stopped shivering from the cold outside. She forgets about Regina singing to her about not needing to be saved. She wants to be living in the fire. She wants the sporadic movements, the twisting and shaking and reaching. She wants the passion and heat. The touching, the licking, the stretching, the ache and desire to go higher and farther and reach out through the confines. She wants to be twisting with her brothers and sisters who are also wanting more and more and consuming the oxygen and sputtering out with little bursts of light as if to say "I WAS HERE, AND NOW I'M GONE."

She blinks and takes a drink.

It's not that there's anything wrong with her life. It's not that there's anything really magical about the fire. It's more that she wants there to be. Without chaos, there is no beauty.

Truth be told, she hates being naked. She never really knows why she insists on stripping down before climbing into the blankets. It's not freeing, it's not comfortable, it's not in defiance of social norms... It's awkward. It's weird. She had rolls every so often, hasn't shaved in days (see the note about her hair), but she didn't feel ugly. Just strange. Nakedness has never meant anything to her besides nakedness. Maybe it was the fleece on her skin. Maybe it was the fire warming her whole body with direct contact. Maybe it was some erotic dream that someone would walk in in a flurry of snow to see her naked by the fire and kiss her until the fire died.
Or maybe it wasn't.

Maybe she just doesn't know what else to do.
Maybe none of it has any real purpose.
Maybe she really is just trying to find some meaning to these rituals.

Maybe her hot cocoa isn't hot anymore, and maybe Regina stopped singing 10 minutes ago, and maybe the fire is crackling down to nothing, and maybe she blinks and forgets everything she has been thinking about.