Ctrl+Z. Ctrl+Me.

"Just living is not enough", said the butterfly, "one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower."
— Hans Christian Andersen.

this girl is on fire.

In what distant deeps or skies
Burn the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

- The Tiger, William Blake


The Match Stick.
Most of us would have heard of the story of the matchstick girl, but here's my version.

The matchstick girl sat in the blizzard, shaking from the cold wind and giddy from the hunger. She had many boxes of matchsticks to sell, but they were just enough for her to pay the rent for the week.

She looked at the boxes in her little basket and shook her head despairingly. Of course, no one would buy a box of matches. How could the matches be compared to lighters? Lighters were much more convenient and easy to use. To her, the boxes looked dull and unattractive.

What the matchstick girl failed to see was the beauty inside the boxes -  the matchsticks.

The matchsticks were thin and fragile, yet the head of each stick was filled with assorted bright colours. Even though, in the initial stage, the striking of the match might not be successful, it only took patience to light it up. The light would have been so dazzling. The light could have been impactful; much more impactful than we think.

The matchstick girl was on the verge of tears, but the anger inside would not let her give in. If she did not sell these matchsticks, she would be stranded outside, alone. She was frustrated, wondering what the world has become. The disappointment in society's reliance on lighters.

Walking down the street in the freezing cold, she decided to stop for a break. It had been hours, her throat was hoarse and her fingers were numb. She decided to take out one of the matchboxes and light a matchstick.

The light; it was stunning sight. The warmth; it was beyond comfort.

Looking around for something to burn, the matchstick girl saw a trash can. She threw the matchstick in and the contents began to burn. She devoured every moment of it. 

Standing at the side of the street, watching the burning trash can, the matchstick girl began to smile. She hadn't smiled in awhile; she hadn't felt such comfort in a long time.

As the fire in the trash can was about to extinguish from the strong wind, she felt a sudden emptiness. She lit another one and threw it in. The fire continued to burn, and the comfort was back.

Skipping around town, feeling a sudden surge of positivity, the matchstick girl threw lighted matchsticks in every trash can and at every flammable object in sight. That entire time, she was happy, excited and could not ask for anything more satisfying.

It was like a drug, an addiction.

Eventually, the matchstick girl looked in her basket. Not surprisingly, all the matchboxes were empty, not a single matchstick was left.

There was nothing for her to sell, no money for her to pay the rent. The satisfaction in all the fires around her seemed to have disappeared. She began to realise the gravity of her doings. 

What was left, was nothing except for all the fires and burnt matchsticks.


- an impulse control disorder
- individuals repeatedly fail to resist impulses to deliberately start fires
- in order to relieve tension, for gratification or relief



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