The Timeless Light
In this supposedly ever advancing age of glittering devices, where the brilliant hum of electronic apparatus resonates through every room like the ceaseless beat of some invisible, all encompassing drum, there is something ineffably enchanting about the gentle flicker of candlelight or the soft crackle of a fireplace. These humble illuminations, which hark from a simpler time, exist in a bold contrast to the blaring fluorescence that often governs our existence. Oh, how wondrous it is to consider how the delicate dance of a flame can calm the soul, the way a weary traveler might find solace in the embrace of a familiar hearth.
The fluorescent light, that modern monstrosity, is a curious creation. Its pale, sickly gleam is akin to the cold gaze of an unfeeling spectre, always present, never fading, yet incapable of nurturing a flicker of beauty. There it stands, hanging above our heads in sterile rebellion against warmth, offering no more than an antiseptic glare that can only pretend to be real radiance. By day, it masquerades as a utilitarian agent of function, claiming to banish the shadows with its cruel, unyielding glow. One glance outdoors and it is clear that this faux-light is hideous. Yet, when twilight descends, it reveals its truest, most wretched form, a dull, lifeless beam which only serves to create an atmosphere of oppressive starkness. It is an illumination that exists in opposition to charm, for it is at night that it shows its glaring, unrepentant nature, almost as if it seeks to convinces us that beauty is now a forgotten luxury.
And yet, in the midst of this uninviting mechanical light, a real flame offers a remedy. When one strikes a match and allows the flickering light of a flame to dance upon the wick of a candle, it is as though time itself has slowed, and the world beyond the window fades into mere reverie. The soft, golden glow, so tender and unhurried, has a peculiar way of bringing a room to life with its subdued magnificence. Each flicker is like the heartbeat of a living creature, vulnerable, yet full of grace. One might sit before such a candle, lost in its quiet radiance, and feel the bustling world outside diminish to a faint murmur, as though the very fabric of existence has softened into a gentle sigh.
Likewise, the fireplace, an ancient source of warmth and light, becomes more than a practical necessity when viewed through the lens of modernity. In the flickering flames, we witness a subtle dance that speaks not to the intellect, but to the very soul. The flames, alive with movement, invite contemplation. They beckon the mind to leave its hurried state and linger in the serenity of their embrace. In that moment, the technologically laden world, so full of noise and distraction, seems a thousand miles away.
Contrast this once more with the abominable fluorescent glow. It serves no purpose but to dispel shadows and provide a fake clarity, a clarity that does not encourage dreaming, nor quiet reflection, but rather demands attention, subdues the soul, and numbs the senses. It is an illumination designed for function, and function alone, with no regard for beauty, no interest in the tender intimacy that the candlelight grants. It is as if the very essence of art and joy has been stripped away in favor of harsh utilitarianism. However, when the sun rises in the morning, it is abundantly clear that the artificial lights are only that: artificial. They bear none of the warmth or the truth that our great celestial overlooker does. The allure of the fluorescent lights exists only in the most dark and desperate of times.
And so, in a dark world brimming with wretched devices and artificially brightened spaces, let us reach not for the artificial, but for the real comfort of soft, flickering lights. The humble candle, the ancient fireplace, these relics of a bygone era offer something that fluorescent lights cannot, a sense of belonging to something timeless, something sacred. In their warmth, we find not only illumination, but the rediscovery of a forgotten pleasure, the act of being present, truly present, in a world too often absorbed in the relentless demands of the machine. And so, it is in the flicker of a flame, whether on a solitary candle or within the hearth, that we find the true beauty of light, one that transcends the cold, mechanical buzz of the modern age and restores the soul to its rightful peace as it awaits the rising of the sun.
It sounds plausible enough tonight, but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning. (Wells, The Time Machine)
