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I love candles, but my fingers were burned by one. For a moment, anger surged through me, fueled by the sharp pain. How could something I adore cause me so much harm? Yet, the truth remains: I love them deeply. Still, I can’t seem to handle the fire.
Ironically, I play with fire every day, in one form or another. So, what are the odds of being burned? When I reflect on life — even the beautiful things, the ones I love most — inevitably, they burn me. What are the odds that the very things that bring me joy will also bring me pain?
Does it mean I’ll stop lighting candles? Does it mean I should abandon them just because one burned me? To do that would be to relinquish the gift of watching their shadows stretch and dance on the wall, to give up the ability to create — to become a god in my own right, painting worlds from the canvas of light and shadow. The intricate symbols, the animals formed by their glow. Or the way the flame flickers with the breeze, mesmerizing me in its wild, addictive rhythm.
The truth is, I can’t escape hurt — even from the most beautiful things, the things I love most. Life shows us that everything we cherish carries the potential to harm us. The question isn’t whether pain will come — it’s whether it’s worth it.
