I wrote this in the middle of the night quite a while back...
never released it....
feel free to email your comments to [email protected]
=)
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And so I sit, all alone. A crack of lightning shreds the night
sky
with its crooked, razor-sharp fingers. The hungry growl of a
distant
thunderclap follows, vibrating the window panes, and little drops
of
water seep round the edges, where I had neglected to shut them
sound.
The rain thumps hard at the glass, like thousands of tiny
fists,
trailing dejectedly earthward after impact, etching clear strips
in
the accumulated filth of weeks. Strange, not even people seem
that
eager to be a part of my life. My little candle dances in its
makshift holder, casting upon the little room shadows seemingly
tuned
to an identical, soundless rhythm. A cheery little pop, the
flame
staggers, and the shadows dance once more.
I sit and stare, at the lonely little dancing candle,
shrinking
under the weight of its bright yellow hat, at the grosteque
patterns
carved out of the tropical dust on the window by the raindrops,
and
at the pinpoints of light brought about by candlelight on the
beads
of water stuck to the glass, a king's ransom in diamonds,
hopelessly
trapped outside my confined world.
I shift a little, and my chair groans, as if resenting my
adjustment. An unseen opening admits a drought, dancing the
shadows
and rustling some papers on my desk, one of which curls lazily
off
the table and into a darkened corner, just conveniently out of
reach.
I do not care.
Another thunderclap, this time more distant. The raindrops
assail
my window with a fraction of their former fury, as if giving up
hope.
Some manage to sneak through the tiny crack around the edges,
dripping with a constant rhythm to the floor, where they vanish
like
magic into the gnarled floorboards. The flame beckons, and
the
assault begins again with whiplashing fury. Vitality renewed,
the
howling wind returns for an encore, hissing noisily through
the
hidden opening, scattering the remaining papers, and squeezing
the
life out of the candleflame, till it is no more than a blue
speck,
clinging valiantly to the blackened wick, like a poor
creature
struggling to stay alive. I reach out to shield it with my hands,
to
give it a chance at a new life, something that I know through a
lack
of to be the most precious gift of all. The flame, which once
had
danced at the edge of death, now stood proud again within my
cupped
palms. I shared its joy, and I knew it shared mine too.
The runaway papers stirred a moth, which took flight hastily,
and
now flitted in tight little circles around the flame, casting on
the
bare walls an exciting shadowplay of wings and antennae. It tries
to
get closer, but the flame singes its antennae. It does another
lap
then tries again, but finds nothing has changed. It settles
finally
on the table, wings spread neatly by its side.
That's me... the flame when it was struggling to survive, the
raindrops which, try as they might, cannot breach what seems
so
deceptively non-existent as a pane of glass. That's me...
being
absorbed into the woodwork after a long fall; Me, being blown
around
all my life, to end up in the dankest of corners; Me, finally
settling down to a long rest...
I look through teary eyes at the candle, now represented in
my
awareness as a keleidoscopic spread of brilliant, flickering
lights.
Something I loved, but would never become. Filled with a
sudden
loathing, I killed the flame.
The shadows gave a final leap, and then became One.
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