Somewhere deep within the woods, deep within a dark room, on a table, was a candle. It was lit, and its glow upset the dark. The candle was solitary and was enjoying solitude. It stayed that way for a few hours; the flame died, for the candle had to rest. The dark was pleased.
The candle never lighted itself again. It tried, once or twice, but it couldn’t, and it did not know why. One day, as the candle was weeping, it seemed — wax beads on pause — the room, from complete blackness, was filled with the morning light. The candle thought it miraculous to have light again, but then again, it did not come from it.
“Dear font of such great light, where do you come from?” it said.
Nothing answered it, of course, for the source was miles and miles away. But the candle waited for an answer until it finally gave in to the assumption that the source believed the little thing, believed the candle, to be terribly insignificant. The candle did not mind, but it did apologize. And once it did, the candle felt something had suddenly been placed over it.
“Whmmmmmmm…” It could no longer speak. It stayed this way forever.