Pondering on the life span of a flame leaves one in an existential conundrum.
Fire, as strong and intense and boastful as it appears is the most frail thing. The juxtaposition between its intensity and longevity is cruel beyond belief. The fragility of its life, how it’s at the mercy of all other elements, I find endlessly and heartbreakingly fascinating
The wind blows a little too hard and it’s gone.
The rain pours in a little too much abundance and it’s gone.
All with its bright, shining glory and beauty.
Just like that.
Gone.
And it becomes a memory that leaves you questioning life itself. Was this flame not just everything for me?
Everything that kept me warm, that waved around its soothing presence, lit my path, and consistently spoke messages of hope, courage and faith?
The only thing I kept before my eyes? That had power over my very life?
It makes you think how large one moment in time can truly become
The largeness tricks you into thinking it’s endless
We were all blinded by the bright light to see beyond it. When it left, it took a while to understand why we stood shivering, in darkness
When we stood, left there without, within something arose. And we learned that there is a form of flame that never truly dies.
The flame became absent without, just to be present within
Where there is no wind. Where there is no rain.
And there is no telling any one of our kindled hearts that the flame doesn’t burn forever~
About the Creator
Victoria Yadira
To be honest, I write because I have to...when feelings get too big, and they fragment my thoughts, they come out in poetry
~I also sometimes write under divine inspiration~
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