Stream of Consciousness: Candlelight

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.

Creative Tidbits

So here are a couple of things I have been working on. A piece of flash fiction, a poem and a bit of creative non-fiction. There far from polished, just some little things I have been tinkering with. Enjoy! (?)

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Lie

Her eyes widened with surprise, and perhaps anger. He watched her mouth move in repetitious patterns, wet lips contracting and breathing, with meaning.

“What do you want me to say? What? What can I say?”

 He himself did not know how this started. A frozen blank expression was all he could muster. The Truth? Was that what he wanted? He might prefer a well-crafted lie. Nothing preserves a person’s feelings like a good lie.

Her brow fixed her face into a stern expression. “I swear you’re making mountains out of mole hills. You know this can’t be healthy for our relationship. How can you love me and not trust me?” Cocking her head and folding her arms she locked eyes with him, demanding an answer; his paralysis proved to be a partial one, as he stammered out a response.

“I know….” He struggled to control the shaking in his hands and voice. A rehearsed speech comes in bits and pieces to his mind. She doesn't even blink.

Her words cut apart his stammering accusation. “What do you know....? That I was out with Tom last night? Tom LIKES men.” Something popped in his mind. This might be plausible. Suddenly he felt like he needed to apologize, to make this better. A panic swept over him. “You always do this!” Her words were confident and assured and fanned the growing fires of his fears. 

“Wait. Just wait. I’m sorry, I just… Its…” His voice was noticeably shaky. This is all wrong. Wasn't he the one who had been wronged? Just run away, run and pretend this never happened. Pathetic.

“He needed someone to talk too, and I didn't want you to tell you because I knew you’d get like this.” Her face was flushed red. Her lips seemed to move faster and faster. “I think I need some time to myself to think about things.” She started to turn.

He grabbed her hand. What could keep her here? “Please… Just wait. I didn't know where you were. I was worried; your roommate said you were at his place, I just… I’m sorry.” A lie. He was wrong, he was always wrong.  The trembling had left his voice, but was replaced by a clumsy pleading tone.

She turned. For an instant he saw surprise, maybe even panic on her face, and then it passed. Those lips were angrily pursed, her eyes stern and disappointed. “Let me go. Maybe we can talk about it later.”

He needed to say something. Anything to make this stop, how can he fix this?  What does she want to hear? Desperation filled his heart. “I can’t lose you. I was stupid, I’m sorry.” And then it dawned on him. Just tell the truth. Just own up. “I went through your texts. I’m sorry, he just sounded like he had a thing for you. I didn't mean too, your phone was just out and I… it…”

A silent glare stabbed into him. “I’ll call you later.” He let go. Then she was gone. He sunk. The curb is a comfort to a man dashed in the road. Cold asphalt did not loosen the knot in his gut.

 This didn't go according to plan.  How could he fix this?

What happened?

Was a lie what he really wanted to here?

Was the truth more consoling?

Why couldn't he tell the difference?

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Glance

Across a room. 

                Magnetic,

A course assumes,

                between eyes.

Apologetic,

                A beholder gazed.

Stunned and undisguised,

too long, and abased,

                he withdrew from her'

Fierce and Beautiful

                Eyes. 

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Toy Soldiers and Boy Generals

                Standing with complete confidence over-viewing the miniaturized world laid out, my hand strokes unkempt facial hair.

Four, twenty-something-year-old boys, stand around a table playing with toy soldiers. The dirty basement littered with paint, plastic and garbage fade from our perception as we contemplate the game at hand.  Between us is a carefully crafted table, green flock intermingles with sand to form a mock terrain of grass and dirt. The image is completed with the scattering of meticulously miniature ruins, forests, craters and trenches to create the illusion of a grand battlefield.  Paint fumes fumigate from a corner where one of these grown children works with dedication on coloring a freshly built model tank.

                My focus concentrates on one point of the table, a battle line arrayed with similar completed tanks, surrounded by individual model soldiers, each built, painted and customized with care. Reaching for a tape-measure, I move the pieces the allocated distance with the precision of a general.  Satisfied with the movement of my troops I flip through one of the dozens of rule books involved in this gratuitously over-complicated game of chess. My opponent gathers together a handful of dice and carefully rolls them in a clear region of the battlefield.  With the odds in his favor I grimly remove several of my own models who have just died in a well-placed explosion. Cotton patches, painted to appear as smoke and fire replace a model tank with another well rolled bunch of dice. All goes according to plan. Odds determine the winner of this game, every time a dice is rolled it is supposed to simulate another battlefield action. A solider throwing a grenade, a man sprinting, a tank breaking down, the courage of man standing alone as his comrades are killed, all are taken into account with hundreds of pages of rules. The amount of time it takes to learn this game keeps its enthusiast to an eccentric and dedicated few.

                The battle has reached a critical point, tensely, the mock generals convene. Murmurings are passed from ally to ally; subtle pointing to rules on page and table areas keep concealed the plans from the enemy. As a consensus is reached troops are boldly re-positioned  I look over to a comrade to gauge his reaction, nodding reassuringly. Resting my hand on the fuzz of the fake grass, I try and blot out the noise of my family upstairs. Analyzing the odds of our success, I order an unexpected counter attack moving from cover into flanking positions. With the rolling of the dice, my opponent’s squirm in the angst of anticipation. The risks paid off as my men storm into position.

                Complete concentration is shattered as my phone sounds from across the clutter of the unfinished basement. With the flipping open of the phone and a quick glance at the caller, work, responsibility and reality flood back into my awareness. No longer the general of the grand army before him, I realize I will likely be late to work if I am to finish this 3 hour game.

                But victory is so close at hand….

And I close the phone, and with it the rest of the real world; At least for the next hour.