Snuffed

False starts. Starts are easy, but then...

We can all start, a thousand first lines and thoughts. What we hunger for is the next step. Yet what tends to follow is a stumble, a stutter, a sputter.

Excitement follows the first flicker of light, the rasping as the head of the matchstick drags along the side of the box, the miracle of miracles as friction becomes flame.

We watch it dance its sad slow dance, perched atop the brittle wooden stake, born to burn. Minutely it sinks, wrapping around itself and licking at its future.

Too often we give up at this point - transfer the flame to the safety of wax, or, every now and then, flick it into a pile of paper, twisted and scrunched and offering. We love to see it dance, though we don't want to stand too close. We don't want it to lead.

Only rarely are we prepared to hold it, to will it to continue its path, its slow wind towards us. What will we do when we meet? How will it feel?

We feel it before it arrives. It hints at what it will bring. Hold on, and what follows will stay with you. Reinvention is possible. The phoenix, we know, does not simply arise. It must first embrace the flame that promises its own demise, must enter it fully and surrender completely. So must we abandon all hope to discover it.

The heat is intense, the flame bearing down, only a moment longer and the door will open, the next step appearing.

Air expels through twisting lips. Darkness falls.