Sputtering, I consume what lies before me, knowing not how long I have left before my fuel is exhausted, before my ephemeral existence is extinguished forever, swallowed by the dark.
I burn passionate and bright. I gaze toward Heaven, stretch high into the sky, longing to cut my ties to this wick, this earthly tether that holds me fast to the ground in a jar.1 I burn bright, my eyes lifted toward the heavens, toward flames in the sky a thousand times as bright, durable, passionate, incorruptible (though even the stars one day exhaust the last of their fuel and cease to burn.)
Footnotes
1. I was trying to liken the Earth to a candle in a jar, but I don’t think I made the connection very clear.
Subscribe to my mailing list to receive a free digital copy of my short story, The Sign.
Enter your email address and click "Submit" to subscribe and receive The Sign.
My writing muscles, rusty and ridden with arthritis in their old age1, squeak and squeel2 and catch as I try to capture that once fluid rhythm that I had once known when I’d regularly fed and nourished my writing, before the neglect, before the indifference, the laziness, the unwillingness to go on in the face of difficulty. I open the faucet, expecting an outpouring, and I find that the pipes have run dry.
Frantic, I run to the well, hoping to find underground reserves buried somewhere deep inside my psyche, and I find that it too is dry.
I collapse, a rag doll, to the ground, bury my face in my hands, and I weep.
I weep bitter acrid tears, tears of acid that burn the land as they fall to the ground.
I weep for the loss of all I loved and held dear, that priceless gem, the diadem I once wore atop my head with pride.
It’s all gone now, just a ghost, a hollow emptied soul howling in pain and anguish, wandering dusty ill-lit chambers late at night, accusing me of a terrible crime. I hear its lamentations, its accusations, and I can’t help but reach the same conclusions.
I am worse than a criminal. In doing nothing, I’ve murdered myself, along with everything I loved.
I deserve to die.
Footnotes
1. I wrote this after having neglected my writing for a few months. It took me a long time to feel confident again.
2. Should be squeal.
Subscribe to my mailing list to receive a free digital copy of my short story, The Sign.
Enter your email address and click "Submit" to subscribe and receive The Sign.
