The Alphabet Project: Matchsticks

Sometimes I think we are all matchsticks, lying oh so still in these little cardboard boxes society has packaged us - under brands and signils and letters wholly unrelated to our very nature but somehow all too essential about our quality and how we burn. It doesn't matter to us, but it matters to the world.

We lie still, stiff, backs and breasts all pressing up against one another, lying in wait for a spark or a flint to let us finally flare up in beautiful flame. Sometimes we get wet by accidental water and the flame just wouldn't start, but that's okay, because dry us up and we are good to go again.

And we burn so bright. There's a spark, a hiss of air as we consume oxygen in our yellow crown of glory, giving out warmth and light and heat to light up a dark night, a child's lantern, maybe a birthday cake. The flame crown is passed on to a greater something: a candle, a bonfire to keep campers warm at night, burning steadily.

But the burn is momentary. Seconds later we will be blown out and the charcoal wreck of our bodies will lie in arthritic shrivelled kinks. We are shamed black ashes, discarded with the tissue and the garbage.

But oh, how brightly we long to burn.