In the pitch dark of a Diwali night, multi-shaped, colorful Diyas(clay lamps) epitomize happines, as the circles of light around them dispel darkness and despair; they stand for erernal hope,as they spatter and burn to the last speck of oil, not giving up. Once they are all burnt out, there is black soot around them, the wick has turned to ash, and there is no sign of the oil that kept the flame going. They lie around waiting to be collected and tossed out. Where once they spread hope and happiness, they are now relics of the time gone. They've had their minutes of glory, and are reduced to mere eyesores. I need to sweep up mine and decide what I want to do with them. I will probably keep some, so I can use them again, to spread their glow at least one more time. Others, I will toss in the trash can to be gone with Monday's pickup. They served their purpose, and can now be dispensed with. I need to clean up the place and move on. Wish one could do the same with relations that are no longer healthy and thriving, but have burnt to ash and soot. Unfortunately, that is the ash and soot we collect and smear around us, and roll around in it.
Gosh, these darned Diyas, are maiking a philosopher of this mere being! I think I'll just stick to candles next year. They glow, they die; you clean up the wax-end of the story.
