THE MATCH

Waking from a fever dream

I came across this poem in Orwell’s world, the first thing I felt was a sense of incredible weight—like I had just touched something both sacred and dangerous. The fact that it was in a book, hidden, means someone else has already decided to challenge the darkness. Someone dared to keep the flame alive long enough to pass it on.

I felt a deep chill run through me, mixed with a rush of fear. In a world where the Thought Police are everywhere and even thinking something subversive is dangerous, this poem is like a call to arms—but one that demands courage and conviction. It forced me to confront the idea that, maybe, I’m living in a lie. That all the “safety” I’ve been promised in the dark room is just another trick, and the truth—painful and dangerous—is something I should not only seek, but fight for.

Reading it made me wonder: Am I willing to hold the match? It’s easy to pretend the flame isn’t worth it, that ignorance is peace, that everything can be soothed with a little more compliance. But the poem’s message is clear: To choose to see is to choose change.

So, I felt a pull to take action. But the question immediately arose: What action? There’s so much at stake. I’ve been torn between a fear of getting caught, of losing everything, and a growing sense of urgency to do something with this knowledge.

In Orwell’s world, though, even whispering dissent could be enough to draw the Party’s attention. The idea of "passing the flame" made me pause and think: Could I dare to share this? To spread it, not in some overt, obvious way, but quietly—like a seed planted in the minds of others who might understand?

Ultimately, it stirred something inside me—a longing for resistance, for freedom—but also a deep dread about what it might cost. When I pass that flame on, it might ignite something much bigger than I can control. But maybe that’s the point, too: if you don’t dare, if you don’t act, you’re letting the darkness win.

In short, I wrestled with that delicate balance of fear and hope—wondering if I could find the courage to take a stand, no matter the cost.

Then I did the fucking thing.

It starts small.
Always does.

A flick.
A hiss.
A fragile flame dancing on the tip of something disposable.

That’s what truth looks like in a dark room:
Not a spotlight.
Not a revelation.
Just a single match between fingers,
the smell of sulfur,
and the quiet decision to see.

Most people blow it out.
They say it’s safer not to know,
that darkness keeps us calm.
But — if you hold it steady
You watch the walls begin to appear.
You notice the cracks, the dust, the things you weren’t supposed to see.
That’s when it hits:
Ignorance isn’t peace.
It’s camouflage.

The match burns down faster than you’d like.
The flame starts licking your fingers.
Pain asks if you’re serious about this illumination thing.
You can drop it and go back to black —
or let it burn until it lights something bigger.

That’s how revolutions start.
Not with a bang,
but with someone refusing to let go of a burning match.

And when you finally touch that flame to paper —
policy drafts, old propaganda,
the sacred files of hypocrisy —
you realize the match was never meant to last.
It was meant to be passed on.

One spark.
Then another.
And another.

Until the dark room isn’t dark anymore —
it’s a field of small, stubborn fires.

Each one a person who chose to see.
Each one a testimony.
Each one saying, softly but unmistakably:

“I dare you to understand this.”

Passing the Flame

I hold the ember
between trembling fingers—
a fragile truth too sharp to touch,
yet too urgent to ignore.

The dark whispers,
tempting me to close my eyes,
to tuck the flame away,
to silence the hiss,
and pretend the night is calm.

But in this quiet burn,
a promise flickers—
that pain is the price of knowing,
and knowing is the first breath of change.

So I pass the flame,
not as a torchbearer,
but as a keeper of sparks—
a guardian of small fires
waiting to become a blaze.

And in the spreading glow,
I find the courage
to look beyond the shadows—
to dare the dark to keep its secrets no longer.