Candlelight Confession

 

In the waning days of autumn, as the festive cheer of Halloween gave way to the twinkling lights of the impending Christmas season, my life resumed its familiar rhythm, and the odd encounter at the fortune teller’s shop faded into the background. The streets of the town bustled with the holiday spirit, and one chilly evening, as I wandered past a choir brightening up the early dusk with Christmas carols, a deacon's merry smile stirred old memories within me.

There was a time when I seriously considered the priesthood, drawn to the enigma of the spiritual realm, yearning to graze the divine with my very fingertips. But life's myriad pleasures were too sweet to forsake, and so I chose a different path, without regret, yet occasionally musing over the road not taken.

That night, I had a peculiar dream. I was wearing the vestments of a priest, standing alone in a church cloaked in shadows, the darkness punctuated by the flicker of candlelight. The service had ended, and an eerie stillness filled the air until a foreign sound pricked my attention. I followed the noise to a massive baroque door of a sophisticated design. The copper knob felt cold under the touch of my hand. And the scream of ancient hinges echoed as the door swung open, revealing only darkness beyond.

As I crossed the threshold, candle in hand, the door slammed shut with a thunderous crash. Whirling around, my heart raced to find no door, only a seamless white wall where it once stood. A voice, serene and low, wafted through the darkness, "Fear not, for there is an exit on the other side. Your path lies through this veil of night."

"Who speaks?" I demanded, but only silence returned before the voice resumed, its tone patient and ethereal, "I am the guide to seekers of light. True enlightenment is not in standing amidst the glow but in casting light into the darkest corners of your being. Your journey starts here and now."

With the candle's meager halo as my sole companion, I ventured deeper into the blackness, placing one tentative step after another. The air began to stir, and a moth fluttered into my circle of light, soon joined by another, then more, their wings a whisper in the void. They landed upon me, obscuring my sight, and I panicked as they refused my attempt to swat them away.

"Be at peace," the voice soothed, "They mean no harm; they are your little guides on this path. Trust not your eyes, but your inner sight, your intuition."

But peace eluded me; the fluttering felt like the beats of a terrified heart. I was ensnared in a nightmare, paralyzing, suffocating. Abruptly, I awoke all covered in sweat with my heart racing. My cat's wet nose and whiskers were gently prodding my face in search of attention. As the daylight scattered the remnants of my dream, I rose, unsettled yet compelled, to begin the day.

In the kitchen, a lone moth battered against the window, desperate for freedom. I opened the window to the cold morning air, and as it took flight, I couldn't shake the sense that these winged visitors were an omen, their images etched into the canvas of my days.