Ctrl+Z. Ctrl+Me.

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

lights will guide you home.

Build a man a fire,
he'll be warm for a day.
Set a man on fire,
and he'll be warm for the rest of his life.

- Terry Pratchett.


Going back to the start.

Four walls.
Four empty walls.

Slow breaths.
Slow echoing breaths.

Quiet tears.
Quiet choking tears.

Dark room.
Dark lonely room.

There lay a box of matches.
A box of promising matches.
Matches known to light fire.
Fire known to give warmth.

Match by match,
a small fire was lit.
Stick by stick,
disappearing from the box.

Each match lit the room up,
for a short while before extinguishing.

The warmth of each match,
brought a short spiel of comfort.
The light of each match,
brought a slight shimmer of hope.

Holding it longer,
in hope of feeling more warmth,
in hope of feeling more hope,
only gets the fingers burnt.

The matchstick;
was it half burnt or half lit?


Would it have been easier to just throw away the entire box of matches?
Would it have saved all the blisters and burns without having to strike a match?
Would it have spared more oxygen for breathing instead of burning?
Would it have made a difference even if the room was without warmth?


If the match was never lit,
would warmth have never been felt?
If the match was never lit,
would light have never been seen?

In that dark room,
if the matchbox was never touched,
and the matches were never lit,
would there have been the feeling of warmth and hope?

If the matchbox was left alone,
would the room ever see light,
If the matchsticks were left inside,
would the room ever have warmth?

The feeling of warmth and hope,
conditioned by the strike of each match.
When the matchsticks run out,
would the room feel colder?



Stuck in reverse.


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