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The symbol of judgment

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The symbol of judgment

For what feels like centuries, this immense heat has burdened me.

It’s dwindled me down each minute and stripped me of my pride. I can’t seem to escape it. I’m solidified to the ground by it. I can’t seem to eliminate it, for it’s out of my reach.

A flame hanging above my head.

My skin is made of wax and bones. It is made of cotton, and my body cannot withstand the harsh force of nature on top of me.

It wasn’t like this before. I never asked for this, but I also brought this upon myself.

I used to be so open about my judgment and thoughts. I’d speak about all kinds of opinions to others. I talked about what color I liked and what music I liked. I came to see that others had different interests, and I did my best to respect them. But sometimes my interests clouded the judgment of others. Their eyes grew foggy the more and more they thought badly of me. I soon came to realize this as their actions changed to impoliteness and acts of rudeness.

Then my bones seemed to flicker; something grew inflamed in me. At first, it was comforting and warm. I felt secure for the first few minutes. I was suddenly no longer comfortable with it. The flare made its presence known with this intolerable feeling, burning into my wax, melting me down.

I felt inclined to change what I said and lie about how I felt.

Yet this flame began to only burn further. Second by second, I could feel myself slipping away, melting into someone new, someone different. I didn’t like this feeling, yet I learned to live with it.

For what felt like eons, I suffered through this unbearable amount of seemingly endless pain. It inflamed my back, making me unable to stand up tall and proud. It slowly began to feed into my vertebrae, making the rest of my wax start to fall and hunch over.

I understand now why this feeling plagued over me. My inability to express myself the way I wanted brought this flicker of light to dwindle me down to a waxy mess. Yet, I didn’t feel like changing. I wanted to stay this way in my place. It kept my head out of the clouds, and it kept my feet on the ground for good.

The last of me remains in a puddle on the floor, and all that remains is a burnt wick.

 

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About the Writer
Dana Kistler, Staff Writer

Dana is a junior entering her first year as a staff writer on The Central Trend. She rows and dives for FHC. During her free time, Dana finds herself...

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The symbol of judgment