Where were you when I was in the dark, all these years?
Where was your guiding light, your warmth, back when I needed it the most? Were you holding it back? If I'm as chosen as they say, why did the choosing take so long? Why wait until my chest stilled, my flesh withered, my bones blackened? What lesson was there left to teach me once even the season had forgotten about me?
How long I remained there, arm outstretched, reaching for another hand that would never come.
I knew the light before I knew the dark, but I knew the dark longer. We became well acquainted. After all, we had all the time in the world, and more worlds beyond that. Whatever light I once knew became a pinpoint in the past, a memory that only exists when I turn around to look at it—and turning around takes muscles. Takes will. Takes life. All that was gone by the time your light, the new light, deigned to glance my way.
It was not a savior that finally answered my call; there was nothing left to save. It was not a gift that was bestowed upon my remains; the person I was never got to use it. Perhaps if you had acted before I was torn to shreds by the wind and the years, I would have more than a shred of gratitude to give back.
But you didn't. And I don't.
You gave me too much fuel and too little purpose. Be that intent or mistake, it doesn't really make a difference to me. It was my body that climbed out of the soil. It was my hand that rose into the night air.
It was me who snapped my fingers, and lit the flame.