wick

Candle in a dark space. It is pitch black night, cool and damp. This candle has never been lit before. Removing the lid, I light all three wicks with a flick of my hand. Black needles, or blades, poking up out of the white, scented wax. It smells like vanilla and lavender. The wicks surprisingly pop, spitting out little bits of ash and smoke. The golden white flames grow and shrink and sway. The closer I get, the hotter it feels. Like a shield of heat protecting its life source. These wicks go all the way down the glass tub of this candle. The hardened wax softens as science decreed it. Being careful as to not burn myself, I push the cooler edges of the wax with my pointer finger. Having softened, it gives and I am entertained my this concept. I begin to light more candles, even ones that have no wicks and are battery operated and electronic, until I am awash in a warm glow and the cool dampness is but a distant memory. I watch the flames wiggle and watch the mysterious shadows that are now cast on the wall in the dark. I do not make a sound and listen to the ticking of wall clock that I cannot see. I do not know what time it is. I do not care what time it is. The floor becomes a tub I now sink myself into. The water is warm and bubbly. Suds are filled to my neck as I close my eyes and flex my toes. I now live in the hardwood floor, attached to this impromptu bathtub. The candles watch over me, useless without their lit wicks. I pretend I am a flame and I dance back and forth in my mind, just like them. I let their movement overcome and hypnotize me, until I am surely asleep and dreaming of something else.