Passive Note of Parsley

I think my dreams are telling me things. But this time really telling me. And now all I think about is fire. It's where there's fire that I'm headed. And this story told me so:
There was once a factory where silk was being spun. In one room, the best room,  there were millions of silk worms. Eating. Munching and eating. Mulberry leaves and eating.  And the sound of millions of caterpillar eating was so loud, you'd have to wear earplugs if you visited. Just try and imagine it. Some sound usually so quite, you've never heard it in your life. Now magnified to such a degree, it would hurt you if you did.
That story comes up in my mind weekly. Sometimes daily.
It's really too simple and slightly tragic, but I'm connected to the fact that it follows me. It seems like it nags me. To remember something I forgot. This story is my talisman. But I don't know yet what for. I don't have tattoos but I gladly accept this as my anchor. A story for an anchor. A captain for my seas.
My mind comes together from this storied memory. Told and retold. Percolating into me, picture by picture. And I only know its there when I'm halfway through.  And by then I'm already gone. In a dream state trance. The place where I always forget to go, but lately yearn for more than ever. Where there's that fire. Nonsensical flame.
My dreams make hardly any sense. But lately they're my best friends. Telling me things I'm much too mortal to decipher. All I can decode is a feeling. A heat that resonates within me. And all I can translate is Fire.