It is there, even on the worst days. A soft, flickering glow, deep inside. When you become aware of it, you turn your back against the wind and cup a hand around the light.
But none of this is needed. The unsteady flame appears exposed and vulnerable, forever on the verge of going out, yet it dances through the gusts and tempests with defiant joy. A mere breath’s whisper away from nothingness, the flame curls back to life and writhes graciously against the murk. Perpetual darkness presses against it, but the glow never succumbs, and it never accedes.
On the best days it throws off searing sparks. Flash and flare ignite a firestorm; a cleansing conflagration. The blackness blazes – becomes ashes. You emerge from the smoke, smoldering and cauterized, torch in hand, raised high above.
But none of this is needed. The unsteady flame appears exposed and vulnerable, forever on the verge of going out, yet it dances through the gusts and tempests with defiant joy. A mere breath’s whisper away from nothingness, the flame curls back to life and writhes graciously against the murk. Perpetual darkness presses against it, but the glow never succumbs, and it never accedes.
On the best days it throws off searing sparks. Flash and flare ignite a firestorm; a cleansing conflagration. The blackness blazes – becomes ashes. You emerge from the smoke, smoldering and cauterized, torch in hand, raised high above.
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