It’s fuel was in its flame,it’s scent secreted in the wax diffused into the room ,acting as an aroma ,like Carona .It burnt inside its glass case without haste or fanfare,it’s ritual was in its lighting,its permanence contained in its slow slow burning.It flickered,danced ,like a marionette in the last throes of this Monday evening.It didn’t make a fuss,didn’t take a bow,but lit up in its flame ,the glow of which beckoned my eye to gain inspiration from its illumination.
Tonight,in this brief observance,I felt it’s ritual ,it’s presence,it’s timelessness,it’s spiritual dimension transfixing but for this time ,rejuvenating ,replenishing the recipient to a newness almost.
“Life is such a brief candle”,sayeth the words of the writer of “The Scottishplay”.
“Tomorrow,and tomorrow,breaths in this petty pace until the last syllable of recorded time”
Blow out sweet candle.