-Ever Burning

A random image that found me, my thoughts on the story it shares, and the words my mind says to write]

'The outside world is absolutely cruel. People ruin and destroy everything around them. They exist in a sphere of excess and rarely does it satisfy them. They willing take another's instead of earning their own, living by greed and despising those who won't comply.'

Nedlin dipped the pen into his side, saturated it with blood, and wrote the next six sentences by candlelight.

'I write within the dark because it is mine own. My candle is the only light I need. It never forsakes me. And when it is almost spent, I make another. Its flicker is my flicker. And it is always enough.'

Nedlin spent a lifetime hiding from the atrocities of those around him. He was used, insulted, and overlooked, until he was a necessity. Society killed him. But they did not kill his light. In the quiet hours of the early mornings, long before the heavens hinted an orange glow, Nedlin sat with pen and paper for rejuvenation. A time to heal. He wrote to live. To love. To forgive. And to forget. He wrote to feel alive again. He wrote to drown out the black noise that always was. He wrote for himself. And he wrote of himself. Always willing to give a piece of who he was, what he was, for the words to come alive. It was his greatest moments. Every time he dipped the pen into his side, he felt a healing. The opening never closed, but it did serve as his tool, to bring forth his thoughts and help him to live. Therefore, it was always welcome to remain as is. Open, and accessible.

Nedlin saved every script he authored. He tucked them away in the darkest corner of his room. He never returned to reread them. He never looked upon them, once finished. He would simply open up the chest and place the next upon the last while gazing at the life-giving flame that danced for him on his desk.

'One day, I will-'

His thoughts stopped.

'No, I won't.'

He shook his head and lowered the lid, without looking, as always.

The morning sun rose and welcomed the world. Its rays warmed the earth and gave everything life. But Nedlin didn't need it. He knew where his life came from. From within.

The day had begun and ruin was nearby. It was always inevitable. He witnessed it every day. But Nedlin's flame burned brighter than the noise around him. He refused to purchase store bought candles and insisted on making his own. Always safeguarding against the ruin another's flame might bring. He lived in his own darkness, but it did not own him. It became his release. It became his world, where love married thoughts, and thoughts married self, and self-married paper, and paper gave him escape. The martial combination formed the very flesh of who he was. Beauty came forth from within, but no one ever saw it. It remained hidden in his chest, hidden in the shadows.

Nedlin wrote to live. In this, he did. He lived in his words. And in his flame. Nedlin was a beautiful soul. If only someone knew it.

[I realize this W2I sounds depressing, but this is how I saw the picture. There definitely are many wonderful people around us all who do add to our lights and remind us that we are absolutely seen, on a daily basis. I felt the need to write this (based on how I saw the image) to recognize those who may feel like Nedlin. Especially during the holidays. Those who may feel like the world is dark and find no light in it. It exists. Surround yourself with people who add to your light and distance yourself from store bought candles. You have a light within you. Let it lead your thoughts and actions. And let it rejuvenate you. Write your own story. And if you (helplessly) feel like it has already been written ... rewrite it. You still hold the pen.]