The Candle

I watch the candle flicker. I like looking at the cheerful flame, burning so happily. It is one of those ordinary candles I bought at the supermarket for power failures such as todays. It’s the last one left and I’ve placed it in the middle of the room in the hope that it will give light to the entire room.

It’s a bright flame, but rather small. Come to think of it, it does look like its trying too hard to live up to my expectations. The small centre table is brightly lit up, but everywhere else in the room, murky shadows lurk. As the little flame sways with the breeze, the shadows take on grotesque forms and I watch them fascinated. For a few moments, I managed to forget my little candle and remain transfixed to the eerie dance that is going on, on the wall. One moment, there are monsters in a devilish dance, the next instant, they have been replaced by the sea and its waves.

As the shadows grow longer, I turn back to look at my lonely light. It’s more than half gone now. The wick is much longer and so is the flame. With tiny sputtering noises, it burn brighter than before. It seems to be burning with its entire might, with all it’s got and is fast getting shorter. The shorter it gets, the brighter gets the flame, almost as if the candle is making a last pitch at banishing the shadows from the corners.

How does it feel to be standing up all alone and fighting, I wonder? To be surrounded by monsters that are advancing even as you fight? When the candle glows brighter, the shadows decrease somewhat, but I think it knows the demons are only biding their time. Consumed by its own passion, the brave little thing fights harder, even when it’s fast nearing its end. The demons are secretly amused, I think, by the little candle’s desperate determination and tease it, sometimes advancing, sometimes retreating. The candle just burns on.

There’s less than a quarter left now and I somehow can’t bear the thought of watching the flame die slowly. Leaning forward, I snuff out my own flame and watch the darkness close in...

Cozy

Unable to sleep, I lie awake on my back, staring at the shadows the fluttering curtain makes in the light cast on it by the street lights. There is a very light breeze outside and it must be pleasant. Inside the house, it's a little stuffy. I wish some of the fresh air would get in and dispel the stale feeling the room has. I look longingly at the open window. The moon is struggling to get some light into the room through the curtain, but it is too feeble in comparison to the harsh yellow light of the street lamps. I wish someone would throw a well-aimed stone at the street lamps and extinguish the artificial light.

I bite my tongue guiltily at the vandalism I'm hoping for, and turn my head, almost afraid that he has heard my thought. He won't like it. But he lies on his side of the bed breathing regularly, his eyes closed and face calm, and I relax. His hair is tussled up and I suppress a desire to run my fingers through it and pretend to tidy it up. I don't want to wake him. He doesn't really like his sleep being disturbed, not any more.

The bed is soft. A little too soft, I think. The blanket is soft and warm and it feels heavy on my chest. My gaze returns towards the window. I toy with the idea of creeping out of bed and opening the window fully and tying up the curtain, so that the cold night can come in. But I decide not to. He likes it this way. Cozy, he calls it. This is how home should be, he says, cozy.

I close my eyes and pray for sleep to take me.

The Tree

The land lies stretched before my eyes. Empty. A lonely tree breaks the straight line of the horizon. I'm too far to make out what tree it is, but it stands straight and tall, almost proud. It's lush, but silent. And alone. The air is still. No wind whispers between its leaves. Its not yet evening, but the sky is heavy with clouds and the sun is no where to be seen. The clouds have taken on an unreal hue, and this doesn't seem like reality. More like a picture postcard, where an inept artist has tried too hard to make an impression, and given himself away in the process. But it is there alright, unreal as it may seem.

My tree stands there, looking a little pathetic. I already think of it as my tree - I know I'm going to keep coming back to it. Its one of those frames the mind's camera doesn't forget. I look at the tree. There is an air of half-expectancy to it. Like its hesitant to hope and just stands there unsure.

He touches my hand and I turn to look at him. Our eyes meet and he reads my thoughts. As always, there's no need to say anything. I smile and he gently tucks a few stray strands of hair behind my ear. He turns to look at our tree and my eyes follow his gaze.

Its stuffy here, I say half to myself, half to him. He doesn't respond. I turn towards him and my eyes stare into emptiness, into the vastness that surrounds me. Everything is still, and empty and I look once again towards my lonely companion - the tree. I wish it would rain. I know it won't. Not just yet. I walk on. Suddenly weary.