LittleLight

IN the middle of a suddenly sullen night an orange glow attempts to gently illuminate its sultry surroundings. To any casual observer it would seem nothing more than a little lamp light. But to some others who bothered to imagine about such things they see it is a beacon, of many different things to many different people. To the jobless tramp who roams such streets at such hours it is a beacon of warmth, an extension of a sort of helping hand even if it only proffered the tiniest imaginable dosage of hope. To the tiny child still within its cradle it is a pretty decoration to widen one's eyes at, to point out to mother at and gaze in shared wonder at. To the mostly ignored little fly it is an enchanting little trap to which though they recognize in some part that comes from deep within themselves is dangerous, is harmful, they will still sing a soft serenade to it all the night long, sometimes forcing a particularly high pitched note, refreshing breath of a note and sometimes sticking to a steady low groove. No matter what, however, it's pitch will remain seemingly undulating irregularly despite occasional repeats of the simplicity of it's melody.
A little lamp is a little beacon. It is simple and yet it is complicated. How many times a day have you oversimplified the littlest things?