Waiting for the Spark

Waiting for the Spark

There’s this ember inside me. It still glows faintly, enough to remind me that something once burned here — fiercely, brightly, alive. But now it’s just a quiet coal, too dim to warm me, too fragile to feed on anything around it.

I keep waiting for it to catch again — for that rush of heat, that breath of life, that unmistakable spark that says I’m alive, I’m here, I’m connected. But nothing ignites. The harder I stoke it, the dimmer it becomes, like I’m suffocating it with my own longing.

I’ve gone deep inside myself. I’ve gone to the gods, to spirit, to silence. I’ve prayed and meditated and surrendered. But what I’m missing isn’t divine — it’s human. It’s that spark that happens when two souls truly see each other, when warmth meets warmth, and suddenly the world feels real again.

Lately, every human interaction just leaves me colder. It’s like I’m reaching through glass — I can see connection, but I can’t feel it. I leave conversations feeling more unseen than before, more aware of the distance between me and the world.

And still, I wait. I wait for the warmth of a heart to kindle mine again. I wait for that moment when something — or someone — reminds me that I am not just surviving, but living.

I tell myself I should be stronger than this. I should be whole on my own. But truthfully, I feel incomplete — not because I lack faith, but because I miss the spark of being known.

I don’t need saving. I just need something real enough to set fire to this ember again. Until then, I’m here — huddled close around what’s left — waiting for the light to return.