Korra had always liked fire. It was the element that fit her personality the best. Bright, fierce, hot-tempered, all of those characteristics described fire. She liked the deadly beauty to it. It teased you with the swirls of color and inviting heat, yet when you tried to reach out and touch it you got burned.
Sometimes, when she was feeling especially lonely or helpless, Korra liked to light matches. She didn't set anything on fire; she just liked to watch the flame burn down the stick, slowly burning the pale wood to a dark brown.
That's how she felt sometimes; weak, vulnerable, consumed by an outside source. Unable to do anything to stop it. She was slowly losing the fight; the fight against the Equalists, against Amon, against herself. She didn't know how much longer she would be able to keep going. She was slowly losing her grip on her own life. Korra could feel it slip between her fingers, knew that she would never be able to regain the days or months or years she had already lost. All Korra could do was keep on going, keep on fighting, keep on pretending she was going to last until the end.