My words are a jumble in my head. My joints ache and I'm so tired that breathing is somewhat of an expended effort. Days like this, I wonder if what I do matters. I wonder if it is worth it to push myself so far and thin that I lose the steady being inside that keeps me grounded and whole.
You could say I'm feeling a little burned out. But writing is peace. I sometimes forget that it's my sanity. With every thought, every list, every bit of choreography claiming it's space in my head there leaves no room for moments of revelation, enlightenment, or moments of self discovery. The more that time is robbed without these cushioning effects, the bleaker it becomes. And soon, we begin to experience life as nothing but a trudgerey. I don't mean to trudge, but isn't that what living is sometimes all about? Still experiencing life even when you are simply plowing through?
Just as a candle burns, so am I. I start with a wick and a strike of a match. It could be a spark of innovation and creativity that ignites my flame. It could be a yearning and desperation so powerful it forces me into moving. Or it could be just a simple act of duty; I light the wick because I know I should.
However your flame begins, it ends the same. A white candle, tall and proud and sturdy will inevitably begin to soften and relent. When it can't bear to hold the weight any longer, the wax rolls off its shoulders and down to the bottom of the jar. It sinks and caves little by little. As it burns, the very candle itself--this solid inanimate object--begins to disappear. It loses with nothing more than a wisp of carbon and perhaps a puff of artificial vanilla. It burns and glows until it is nothing more than a nub and there is nothing left for it to give. There is no more energy left to expend. A candle can only hope it did what it should in its melt; provide light, scent, and maybe a spectacle of soft lit beauty. Only until is cools, rights itself, and maybe is clipped of the blackened wick, is it ready to again glow brightly and cast its dancing shadows on the wall. It will burn again, because it is a candle. I am a candle. And I know I was meant to burn.
