Paulo Coelho

The candle sits in a glass chamber. Its depth into the glass is telling of how long it has been used. With each flicker of the flame, it melts more wax to form a small pool beneath it and exudes the scent of a strawberry-cherry conconction.
I am often indifferent to details because I am always eager to see or form the big picture. In my haste, I seldom stop and smell the roses much less describe how a candle flickers, yet there is something inherently peaceful in watching this candle burn. It gives me a sense of calmness I rarely experience.

I try to blow it out, but I am met with resistance. I try, and try, and try, and try again. I finally put it out on the fifth one and I wondered as to how often a candle kills its flame on the first try. Rare isn’t it? Maybe there is something to be said about the candle’s persistence in keeping its flame alive despite the first blow that hits it or even the ones that hit it afterwards. Only when the core of its flame is blown that it finally gives it out, but even then it attempts to leave one more lasting puff. It could very well be that there is nothing to be said at all other than it is mere fact of science – a truth that we universally accept as the “way it is and the way it always will be.”

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