The Candle

Jane.
An original written by Alexandra.

Artist's Wife Reading by the Candelight (1863-1935)
Carl Vilhelm Holsøe

I strike the match. Unsuccessful. Once more –
that’s got it. I place the lone candle on the window
sill. The flame is frozen. Motionless. Unresponsive.
My cottage is remarkable at keeping every whistle,
draft and breeze out, no matter how forceful it is
outside, and it is incredibly forceful tonight. The rain
is absolutely torrential and relentless. The thunder is
triumphant and theatrical. The lightning is crisp and
electric. The Gods upstairs are indulging in melodrama.
They are putting on a show, but the candle is unfazed
as she waits in the wings. The flame vehemently remains
still, as if with something to prove. The trees
smash against the blurred window. The loud noises
are so unforgiving and unnerving.
Yet, she is still. It’s admirable.

I reiterate, I have lit a lone, individual candle. I don’t
want to crowd her with any others. She lights enough
on her own. I don’t want the big light on, nor even
my bedside lamp. I just want her. I like the slightly
more yellowed glow with which she illuminates
everything. My papers, all sprawled out in absolutely
no order, that exhibit all my nonsensical scribblings,
my pristine white yet wrinkled pillows and quilt covers,
my tired, worn-out clothes hanging exhausted on the back
of my chair, are all tinged with the candle’s yellow.
It's far better than the artificial light from a
bulb. The golden tinge, despite the mundane ordinary
of my life, makes it feel romantic. It makes it feel hopeful.
That no matter what, there is light.

Night after night, however, the candle is stationary. I want
her to flicker, wave, dance. She has become too stoic.
Even when the world is crashing outside, like tonight’s
storm, she remains grounded and still. It’s both admirable
and frustrating. Move. Do something. Anything. I can see
it’s no longer a calmness, but a numbness. A departure
from emotion and feeling. Because, I know she used to
move, react and rage. Perhaps, subconsciously, that’s why
I continue to light her, day after day, night after night.
Will she do it again? Why doesn’t she do it anymore?

Life is simple at the moment. Not much occupies it.
It’s quiet after many years of noise and clamour. It’s
unoriginal and cliched, but the bustle that used
to clutter my life was perfect at distracting me from
tending to my wounds and sores. I became masterful at
evasion and deflection. I mistook my busyness for recovery.
Now that life affords me more room, more space, more
calm, the wounds cannot hide. I see them, under the
golden hue. They are there and they are as fresh as they day
they marked me. What’s funny, however, is that I sincerely
cannot feel them. They have imprinted me and made a
home out of my skin, but it feels vacant. It’s as if this isn’t
my skin at all, and hasn’t felt so for a long, long time.
I so desperately want it to. Sometimes the immense
despair of simply wanting to feel anything at all pushes
me right to the cusp of experiencing every emotion.
I’ve grown to see how fine the line really is between feeling
nothing and feeling everything.

Night falls once again, and ritually, I light my candle.
A couple strikes of the match, and she is aglow.
I stare at her thinking it’ll be different. Why would it,
though? Not much changes from day to day.
I continue to glare, until ever so softly, she begins to
flicker, as if she is awakening. Have I imagined it?
Have I stared for so long I’m starting to hallucinate?
No! The motion starts at the tip of the blaze and slowly
begins to embody the entire flame. The candle flickers
with rigour now, even though everything is eerily still.
I don’t even dare to release my breath as I am so awestruck.
I feel something trickle down my arms. I look down
and see my wounds have opened and started to bleed.
The golden glistening of the animated flame reflects in the
deep ruby of my blood. It’s such a wonderful sight.
The pain gradually grows and prickles itself into my skin.
All feeling has returned, and more importantly,
I, myself, have returned, too.

I look back at the candle. She’s fluttering away and
I can’t help but cry. The ice has melted and the storm
outside continues to put on a show. There is movement,
there is rage, there is hope. There is something greater
than me, and for now, that is plenty.

Candlelight (1818-1901)
Johannes Rosierse