Candlelight
There is something about it; that haze, the soft malaise of melancholy. It’s not especially painful, though it can be; really it’s more uncomfortable and paralyzing. It’s a slow creeping ailment, hidden in the background of your thoughts, a far off static. It’s just on the horizon of your view; an encroaching fog. Like a shadow it has never left me. There are times when I forget it exists, my attention focused instead on the joys and excitements of conscience experience. There are times that I yell, struggle and flail against it, dispelling the fog, drowning out the static, if only for an instant. Most of the time it’s there in the corner of my eye, in the background of my thoughts, slowly and patiently chipping away.
Then there are the moments of clarity. You could describe these instances, sometimes frequent, other times rare, as a delicate concoction of enlightenment and insanity.
These moments have a single underlying similarity, they are destructive. The feelings they bring can range from acute unbearable pain, to numb blinding apathy.
They can even make you happy; not the content amiable happiness of embracing an old friend, no. It’s the manic happiness of an addict getting their fix.
This lucidity occurs when you stare the sullen shade, the haunting whisper, in the face. It comes from the back of your mind, the outskirts of your vision, to the forefront.
Instead of being a barely audible whisper, it becomes a conversation.
And its voice is beautiful and persuasive.
I watch the candlelight, the flame tall and swaying with the little thoughts of its little life. It dances around the wick, without touching, but clearly entwined. The smallest of breezes breathes change into the tiny pyre. Moving, flickering, extending, and trying desperately to escape the comfort of the candle. Its own intensity growing, ignorant that it was the breeze that shaped its intent. Dimming as it returns to its consistent sway, I smile a sad smile, for its futility. The cracked window whistles with a warm rush of summer air. The tiny flame quivers and shrinks, wounded. Dominated by the gale it struggles to keep alive. I gently pull the window closed, keeping my eyes on the tiny flare of life. Dimming into the protection of its prison its vitality blinks in and out, like panicked breaths.
I watch with intimate focus as it slows and claws for stability. It becomes still, an experienced composure overtaking its previous erraticism. With slow, deliberate growth it rises. Steady, but bright it hovers at rest above its unresponsive habitat, never quite reaching its previous height. Despite its smaller stature, the flame bursts with illumination, casting shadows across the silence of the room.
I watch for a long time.
There is calmness to its life. There is a dignity in its subtle movement, and also sadness under its surface, the kind that comes with the acceptance of a painful truth.
And as I watch the flame, it shrinks slowly, but its brightness remains constant. It never dims, but acts with volition. Then, without warning, it is, gone. Its wick unchanged, the candle inanimate, a small life extinguished.
a part of me misses it and scorns it’s choice. but
with only the hint of smoke and the darkness of the room,
a soft compelling voice in my head tells me
that it is wisest life I ever will witness.
