candle

object writing. 10:03am - 10:13am

this cylinder of light, it's flat rounded top ignorant of it's impending future. the wick sleeps against the surface, desperate to be invisible. if a knife cuts through, it feels like an ancient parmesan wheel, with waxy flakes clinging to the steel. it is able to carry any scent in the world, and this particular one supplies the air with wafting citrus, clean cilantro, warm herbs. Finally the wick rises and turns black with a wild yellow-orange mane, hair like a troll. the once-flat surface upon which it stands now slowly caves inward, and liquifies. the edges soften and collapse with time. days will pass and it will shrink and shrink, shorter and shorter it will go. until it is a dead disc of wax with no purpose left. once tossed inside a black, muffling plastic bag, it will reminisce about its stronger years. the years - or maybe just days - when it was placed on the mantle with a thud. so solid it used to be. so proud. but what kept it useful for a short while is what, eventually, made it obsolete.