Light is a cradle. It consoles the spirit, embracing all with its presence. It represents life.
In my house, the only lights that shine are within my room and at the altar of my deceased mother. No one is around to hear my repetitive complaints about life. No one breathes emotion. No one is alive here; even I have succumbed to the draping shadow of sadness. An everlasting blanket of an end without a beginning.
At six thirty at night, on this February evening, my bell is the only one that rings and echoes throughout the dark, lonely hallways. Not one smile flashes in this somber house. It's... comforting. Fear has no place in this house, nor humiliation, anger, or hate. It's empty. Never taking a step forward, but never stepping on an unexpected booby trap.
Ice slowly begins to melt once again, leaving merely the memories of Christmas and happy times. We only wish for change, but change does not wish for us. Change runs away from us, and we, the creatures with capable legs, must give chase.
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