You Are the Candle Tonight
You were drawn out of nothingness to be here, to come to this place, and now you write alone. Alone—all mind, all spirit, all fire—nothingness was your home, now write as your mind begins to sizzle with lightening. Notice the sky is alone above you. Pale as skin, alive and terribly unknown.
Alone. You are the candle tonight. Pick up your pen. You need no one. You need nothing but the haze dropped down from the sky. Walk outside without your shirt just once, on a night full of cold blades, and then smile. Later, you can pick up the pen, but for now, just stand there and smile. If you are lucky, a wind gust will come, literally from the emptiness of space, and knock your breath back into nowhere. And if you are not so lucky, just smile, because you can be sure someone, somewhere, is inside, trying to stay warm, and they will never find it. To turn blood into starlight, the fire must come from within.
Death, yes, death will come with blue fingers, licked cool and soft to the touch, but today you will write alone and you will be happy—happy that you are alone—happy knowing that you can write even to the edge of death itself. You meet death alone, even tonight, like a distant star. Put down the pen for a moment and say hello to yours. There is no getting away and you know it. One star is yours alone, and it knows your name. Since its light died millions of years ago, it wants you to stay silent.
The stars, shining after death, already know the meaning of silence. You do not need to learn it.