In the sadness and rage filling every inch of my thoughts, I was a lonely figure standing among the charred trees and ashes, holding an empty bucket of water and inhaling smoke more than I'd ever breathed air.
I was a dying candle with the wick down to its stem, hardly able to hold a flame much less give light.
Because the more I gave the less I seemed to exist. And the only thing I had left to give was my existence.