My Matchbook Metaphor

It was like a long wooden match. When we first struck it against the flint, it sparked and burst into a brilliant orange and yellow flame. There were tiny bits of sulfur spewing out from the initial explosion of excitement. The fire burned big and bright, drinking in the air and growing tall.

When the sparks began to subside, the flame settled into a steady and slow burn. Every now and then a fine hair from the wood that had peeled ever so slightly from the stick would sparkle a little bit brighter. But as time went by, and the fire worked its way down the matchstick, the original fire waned and the flame got smaller and smaller.

The matchstick itself that remained at the top was burned through, and had lost its strength. The oxygen had been sucked away from the flame. There was no longer anything to keep it alive. The potency of the stick itself was unrecognizable. The fiber had been charred by the anger and the heat of the fire.

Finally, on its last breath, when there was nothing left to keep the fire alive, it quietly withered, leaving nothing but the scarred remains of the matchstick’s foundation, and a wisp of smoke, sadly blowing away like a memory in a puff of the breeze. And isn’t that sad.

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