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Candle, The (A note to my kids)
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Love The Candle
As the candle grows shorter and flickers near the end of its life going out
Gave its warmth and light to whoever came near never judging what�s wrong or what�s right
Round and smooth in its perfection with its light shining from on high at first and as it grew shorter and weaker the circle of light grew smaller
When half done its light shined equal on what was above and below
Who�s to say what age is perfection � light shining both up and down
Each age it shines in a different way and lights up a different dimension
Some spend their life in a golden holder � some supported by sand
Though each had a different foundation, the light was equal and fair
The wax dripping down from the flame runs down and drips on the table
And is used to create a new candle, small at first but always growing as long as the flame is burning. If the flame is extinguished the light, warmth, and growth are all stopped.
The new candle in the making has no source of wax to grow on. But the wax of another to help it continue to grow.
I have had a lot of poetic thoughts lately made manifest by romanticism mixed with nostalgia. All of those notions are considered a little "kooky" by the general public but being artistic I cannot be otherwise. How else can I deal with the silent screaming inside or the fire that can only be extinguished by eating too much, smoking, or "loving?" I have an emptiness that I can't fill. I think you alone can understand it. I have so much life in me and so much living to do and so little time to do it in. I can't even indulge any of my human appetites because everything is bad for me. I think of that candle a lot and it is me. I am burning out; the light flickering; life melting away. The dimmer the light burns on the outside the hotter it burns inside. I understand now that my life with your mother WAS my life. There was very little before except the waiting and nothing after. Emptiness, nihilism, agnosticism, hedonism, Epicureanism - all in control - not me but outside forces I have no control over. I am up and down so much I feel like an elevator with no floors to stop at. There is no space; no place; no room; no life for me - just floating and drifting like a cloud - part here part there ever changing shape and image. I have a life and it's not bad but it's an illusion. I lost my kingdom and I do nothing but wander. I feel like a moth that keeps landing in the flame. I am educated and intelligent but what good is that without a place to spend it? Before at least I had books to hide in and tools to keep my hands moving so my mind was too busy to taunt me. Now I have the computer, my kitchen and the TV - sounds like house arrest. If that wasn't enough I am completely surrounded by idiots and ignorance (other people in the complex) desperately seeking their own annihilation. Their emptiness echoes my own except they have the good fortune to be unaware of their diminished capacity. The old analogy of the happy pig versus the unhappy human ("Which is best?" asks Epicurus). Okay I have screamed into the night long enough now. The wind dissipates my cries and the darkness has only the small light I have left which is not enough to see the end of the journey. I must write - It is my friend through it all - the words, the phrases, the paragraphs and, at last, the story.
Well I must go. I am done with my tirade. In the morning all will be different - again. Love - Dad
