Fading Like a Candle Flame

There are times when the dream seems too challenging to pursue, like a rocky path full of gravel and pebbles that’s hard to walk on or a dark alley full of rabid hounds chasing you down.

Oftentimes, in dire times like these, it seems almost natural to drop these silly aspirations and follow through with the trivialities of real life.

Trivialities such as paying taxes, watching the suffering of the poor, rushing to make it on time for an appointment, or simply chasing after the big bucks to make a living and buy fancy cars and big houses.

It all seems too easy; certainly much easier than putting your mind into writing a few nice words or sketching the perils of the world on paper and hoping to be read or heard or appreciated.

In a world like this you’ve only got room for either one of two things: luxury or truth. There exists no possible scenario where you can have both.

It’s a dog’s world where we all fight for the last piece of raw meat and nobody ever wins: the one who sinks his teeth into the meat finds out it’s gone bad and gets poisoned, while the others simply die out of starvation.

Those who say life is a card game never truly had it going: it doesn’t matter what hand you get or what cards you play as long as you realize the game’s a forgery. The rules are all bent and whatever you choose to stick to or play by or believe in you end up biting the short end of the stick.

It seems pointless to believe in art and literature and music and theater since they’re all cheap imitations of the truth.
It seems equally vain to believe in money and corruption and power and manipulation since they’re nothing more than expensive imitations of lies.

Man’s greatest sin is that he never truly managed to distinguish between what he wants and what he needs.

And now, with every turn of the globe, the world seems to put on a new face. Crime, wars, terrorism, theft, fraud are just facets of an entirely new dawn.

Humanity – you never really had it. Every time I sit here and write about the agony of man and attempt to understand his struggle, I realize I don’t even know what to begin with.

I feel like a candle slowly fading, its fire tip almost running out. So I try to pour out every ounce of my cheap thoughts and whiskey-induced observations before I completely run out of this place, this world.

Only the pen in my hand and the keystrokes on my laptop understand my pain. They are the ones that have truly been there for me. They are the ones that have seen my transformation from beast to artist to man to slave. In my time of need for writing as well as my time of gloating and obsession with beating the hardships of life, they have stayed the same, feeling the alteration in my tapping and writing and sensing the change in my being.

I’ve come to realize there is no purer thing than devoting yourself to what will eventually come to be your eternal doom, haunting you for every second of your damned life and stripping you of everything you own – including your soul.

The candle does a damn good job at lighting the small room I currently reside in. I watch the flame at its tip dance away to the beats of the wind outside.

But like all things, it’s bound to run out someday. Yes, there will come a day when I wake up and sit down here at night to write with a fifth of whiskey in my hand and the candle will not be illuminating the place. The flame will no longer be dancing and will have made way for a small trail of smoke coming out as the remains of the candle slowly burn out.

And just like that candle, my humanity is bound to run out someday; I will stop caring, I will stop being, I will stop searching for meanings in this life. I will have run out of myself, and there won’t be enough left of me to carry on or occupy a place in this world.

All that will remain is the stiffness of my soul and the alcohol I have consumed, slowly lighting a fire that will eventually burn out and make way for its own darkness.

By the time that happens, I imagine people will have heard of me.

And when the time comes for them to find me, all they have to do is follow the trail of ashes left on the pages of my writing desk.



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