“I burn, I
shiver, out of this sun, into this shadow.”
― Virginia Woolf
It’s dark
and I fiddle about in the drawer under my desk, now host to a wine glass and a
untidy stack of books, with my device’s keys lighting a brief path to my hands.
And there
it is – my matchbox. 240 matches. And I only have that due to a fault of change
– so like me to not realize the value of something. And thus, I am deprived of
something ten times what I should have been. Well, if you lose, you may as well
lose big.
And gain in
equal, I guess.
Those
small light producing instruments and my hapless hands. That would be the story
of me and matchsticks.
It’s
curious how I came to possess something that was so obviously meant for me. 240
matches? Who would ever need that? Especially a figure that never did figure
out the necessity to smoke (don’t worry, I die and live through my words – that
is enough intoxication), the only reason it arrives is when due to lack of
electricity, through design or demand, I find my motion going towards failure.
Cause why
not?
The first
matchstick lights almost by mistake. First try? I wish. It’s as if my brain
can’t even swallow my success and before I react, the slightest breeze ensures
I don’t suffer the ignominy of misunderstood victory.
Second
time now then, with a bit more deliberation.
It just
becomes meaningless scratches against the surface of a reluctant mascot – no cheer
there. I frown at the box like a suffering player disgruntled with a passive
crowd. The game continues, even if I did not wish for it.
A third
one again lights up and blows out as soon as I reach for the candle. I wonder
briefly about some pretentious symbolism of life before switching to another
victim.
200
matches right? A lot of ways to fail. The night is still young, and so is my
battered heart.
Success! Fourth
times the charm!
I preen
proudly as a would-be conqueror sipping my wine – before the smile vanishes in realization
that the light is too weak to facilitate any reading.
Sigh.
Well, the
ambiance is there. The haunting music is there. And I am there in the dark,
with my swirling wine.
All alone
with my roguish thoughts and dying dreams. Even after so many matches lie in
wait for a sudden death.
It’s okay. We die every day. Thankfully some of us serve a purpose – my today is not one
of them. Or maybe it is. Maybe I will learn one day.
Have a
good week.
Not every
failure would be so sweet and peaceful.
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