At times, being an aspiring writer is not always easy, the words don’t always flow forth onto the page as easily as I would like, so I go in search of inspiration where I can find it. On one particular day when my words eluded me I went in search of a candle, what I found was something buried deep within me, and when my writing was complete I would be transformed.
I know I have one, I’m sure of it. I ruffle through the drawer—searching for that piece of inspiration that will light the way to my imagination. Six-tangled-electrical-cords, three tacks, forgotten pictures of birthdays past, and student Picasso’s tattered and worn—there it is—one lone stick of inspiration.
I place the fragile remnant before me, its cold, fleshy remains dripping with waxy tears, and I wonder how much life remains in this savior of the night. I peel away flakes of burnt memories as I remember the dark nights when the children were scared and we told stories to pass the time until the light-of-day, or the power company saved us from the fear of night.
One strike, a whiff of sulfur, and it is time to begin.
As I stare at the flame that flickers in the light of day, I am saddened at how the golden flame of hope seems dull, sad, and eerily still. It cast no foreboding shadow, brings no warmth, and for the moment—no inspiration.
How much has my mind become like this candle, the synapses hardly used these days, withering away into nothings. How long will it be before the light that once burnt so brightly in me fades away and I too become used up, with nothing left to give the world but a few last flickers from an old man who has been used up by ravages of time?
The flame dances across my soul, burning deeply within the far reaches of the memories of the man I used to be. Drawing up memories of what could have been, if only I had dared to dream. If only, if only, if only… I had dared to use my talents in the way they were meant to be.
A candle no more belongs in the light of day than I belong in the darkness of a job that has never, will never, and can never appreciate who I am. As the flame begins to wane, my flame begins to burn brighter. Maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to come out of the shadows and follow the beacon of light to my dreams, and one day call myself a writer.
Today is that day, I am no longer an aspiring write—today I am a writer.
Terry A. Elkins (whyguy)