From the Perspective of a Candle 🕯️

I was born just now, and I could speak.

I’ve heard stories that my purpose in life is to give light to the people who hurt me by burning my hair. But though people say I’m born to sacrifice myself, I refuse to believe it.

I’m being put in a box along with my friends, and now I look like a showpiece to the people around the bustling shop I’m in. From here, I get a chance to watch people every day… and I don’t think they are as harsh as I imagined.

I always see them with smiling faces, some crying too, which makes me pity them. Children visit often, crying when their parents don’t give them what they want. Ever wonder how I know them? I have no mom, or maybe I was born without one, so I don’t feel like most people do… none of my friends have feelings either.

The place I live is bright, decorated with countless lights. 

If light is everywhere, what is the purpose of my existence? I was taught that I live to give light, but now it seems that lesson was wrong. I’ve heard that giving light hurts, and oddly enough, that thought comforts me.

Days passed, months slipped away, and I kept watching people. Slowly, they became entertainment for something I longed for… a life I could never touch. 

I wished I had hands and legs to walk, wishing I wasn’t locked in a box, with only a thin plastic sheet separating me from the world. I dreamed of impossible things, things no candle could imagine.

Slowly, a year passed. Then two. I spent my days dreaming, knowing the desires in my wax heart would never come true. I even considered burning myself, knowing my dreams were unreachable.

Dust began to settle on me. A small spider built its web in my box, its sticky threads like the world clinging to me, reminding me how ugly I’d become. Humans ridicule others for losing brightness, for becoming dull, and now, I understand. My purpose feels lost.

Before being placed on this shelf, I never felt so empty. I once had little goals, small desires to burn slowly. But now, I long for love. I am dirty, ugly from dust, yearning for someone to take me home, to finally let me burn.

And then… it happened. 

Someone took me.

But at what cost? A flood engulfed the city, soaking my hair, freezing my wax. My friends, too, were swept away. I lay in a pile of debris, shivering, wondering if my purpose would ever be fulfilled.

Slowly, consciousness waned under the icy touch of the flood. Then… warmth.

A girl. Her face glowed with a golden hue, like the sun itself had blessed her. She didn’t belong here, yet I could feel her need. The light I emitted became hers, saving her from the cold, from darkness.

Pain still throbbed in my wick, but helping her gave me warmth. My scented wax filled the air with a soft floral hope, whispering that her parents would find her soon. Even though burning made me cough, even though my hair hurt, I didn’t care.

I cried, my first tears of joy. I realized I had fulfilled my purpose. For the first time, I understood why I existed: not for show, not for dust or time, but for her.

In my last fifteen minutes, I was aware that my flame could die at any moment. Yet I was satisfied, knowing she was safe, reunited with her parents. I dedicated my final drop of wax, my tear, to them.

At last, I burned for two straight hours. Two years of dreaming, longing, waiting… for just two hours of real purpose. Funny, isn’t it? But at least I finally understood why I was born. And that is enough to console me.