Candles

"Make a wish." 

He blows out the candles and the room goes dark. When there is light again, he is alone. He looks around and there are empty chairs, an open bathroom door, a painting hanging over the fish bowl in the corner, and a flickering lightbulb in the other room. The light stills. He looks ahead of him, on the table, there is a birthday cake with his name and the wish Happy 12th Birthday. His friends are nowhere to be found, perhaps they'll drop by later. The silence is present but it is peaceful, he readjusts his seating on the chair. The candles are unlit, waiting for a flame. He remembers this scene from his memory, maybe because it was a simpler time. Before he knew he had a heart, one that could be hurt, one that could be broken. Before his eyes lost its vision and he received his first pair of glasses, now he can't imagine himself without them. Before there were people to be satisfied and impressed, expectations to be lived up to and strangers to leave a good impression on. Before he believed that he had to be the best for everyone before he was the best for himself. 

"I'm sorry it had to end this way." She's looking straight ahead. 

"That's okay, I'm grateful." 

He wonders to himself when making eye contact became so difficult. People have beautiful eyes, and as someone once said, the eyes are the windows into the soul. Perhaps this is why people break eye contact more quickly than they make it, because they see too much and become frightened. That explains why people fall out of love faster than they fall into it, the air makes it hard to breathe, the ground below is approaching and death is inevitable. It's inevitable regardless. But some people who die many times before their last breath forget how to live, forget what it feels like to be loved. Perhaps this is a consequence that people don't think of before they leave without notice or change without warning, who can blame them? We're all carrying something. 

"You'll find another." 

"She already did." 

His words are enough on most days but the emotions burn themselves out, him being the cigarette and his feelings being the smoker. He breathes himself in and out, the smoke is his writing, the hot burn in the back of his mouth, the reasons for his writing. He wants to move, he wants to restart. He wants to return, he wants to experience everything again for the first time. But the same thing never happens the same way twice. He's eleven years old for a year before he turns twelve, he only experiences October thirteenth once a year before the next. He loves and forgets and feels. He writes. The silence comforts him, the sun warms him, the wind reassures him, the rain consoles him, the laughter embraces him, the smiles carry him, the evening suits him, the morning wakes him. He promises to himself that he won't let his emotions get the best of him but it seems that is all he can rely on these days. That they're here for a reason, unknown as it may be. Even if he must remind himself everyday of their presence, he'll keep moving. He'll keep writing. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result each time, he never really felt that he was sane. Perhaps that isn't such a bad thing. It's different. 

He'll spiral into himself and out of himself as he searches for the right words to say, the right things to do, the right things to feel, the right things to believe, the right people to love, the right books to read, the right movies to watch, the right food to eat, but he'll remain himself. He can promise himself that. 

"This is a beautiful song." She looks at him with kind, piercing eyes. 

"Yeah, it is." He looks up. 

"Why are some people so scared of making eye contact?" 

"Maybe it's because it'll reveal too much of themselves." 

"And that's a bad thing?" 

"I guess." 

Holly Warburton, 2016