Tonight I write by candlelight. The flickering light is kind of fucking with my eyes, but there’s a sense of wonder. Each line, my pen recedes from the glow only to slowly, gracefully dance toward it. The light swallows my words. In the end they will burn as the wick, curling in slow, singed sickles—a sickly, woven finger smelling of bergamot. Oh well.
I told jokes again tonight. The audience definitely laughed. Even if I only ever get one laugh, it would be enough for me. I love making people laugh. Their glee enlightens me. I become effervescent—bubbles listing along a gentle breeze. Oh to be floating through the atmosphere. Oh to be a giggle on the wind.
Boy writing by candlelight is a rather limited spectacle. It is nice as my hand tracks closer to the warm glass, and post-Christmas fragrances calm the room. Only, my hand also obstructs its radiance. Only, my nose is tired and awfully close to flame. Oh well.
Tonight I am tired in a necessary way. I am ready to let the cool dark consume me. But, not before I destroy a bowl of cereal. It is already too late to play video games. Part of me hopes I’ll get food poisoning so I can call off work tomorrow, yet my lactose intolerant ass begs me not to drink actual milk tonight.
Only time will tell who wins. My candle flickers.
I love my mom, dad, sis, wife, daughter, & cat