I played with a box of matches all of my life. As the days darkened, more matches would be lit and the ashes would blacken. The people around me were coursing rivers of white waters while I was a lit match that had burned out.
My flame grew colder with every step I took. I tried to shield it from the waters of others', but it could never fight against the force of the raging torrents. Little by little, my soul drowned and my eyes flooded. I was running out of matches, and no one wanted to spare a light.
My matchbox had been emptied, and I still hadn't been kindled. No light radiated from my being, no smoke lifted from my wick. There was no one who could love sorrowful heart; an unlit candle.
Everyone I met was an enemy; they were all a heavy downpour.
When I found a light, it was much stronger than a match. It was a fire. It over took the waters, and vanquished them. But even the candles were destroyed. Their wax was melted, and their wicks had burnt away. I watched as the flames engulfed everything in their reach.
That was the night I wrapped myself in flames and set my soul ablaze.