So I've been lighting candles every night since I've been here. There are truckloads of them in the basement and I just light them and blow them out, on again, off again. I like the smoke and the fire more than the burning. I dip my fingers into the molten wax and let it crust over my fingerprints. Love isn't right, but it's the first word to come to mind.
Why is this so important? Because I haven't been able to light candles in a long, long time. NAU doesn't allow me to, and my mom didn't allow me to when I lived with her. They're afraid I'll burn down buildings.
When I was younger I used to light a match and watch the fire ebb into the wick. Inhale the sulfur, toy with the heat. I would switch off the light and lie on the floor and talk to God and just be calm.
My mom made me throw the candles out or something. It's been a long time. I can't even remember how much it meant to me.
Anyway, light candles now wouldn't be important if my candles didn't have personalities. The blue one is new and she is arrogant and clean. The red one is angry but now that she's melted down a lot she's mellowed out a bit. The green one is a filthy bum that needs to work. The orange one, that has four wicks is kind and boring and unoriginal. The three or four that melted into puddles and went out are just a blur now.
I've been feeling this way toward my candles since I've gotten them, but only now realized how I felt. Subconscious inversed reflections. These thoughts are associated with the mental phenomenon synthesia. It does that to you.
When I was younger, I thought my synthesia was making me crazy. I didn't know what it was. I used to think my dishes had gotten dirty on purpose to punish me and make me clean them. I used to think the clock was causing me to suffer, mocking how much time I had left to live. I smashed that clock in with my bare fist and swung the rest against the wall. I bled a little. The next day, I walked down to the ditch and tied it to a pole.
So I'm a little abnormal.
No comments:
Post a Comment