Letters from Awriterstip – Week 3
"The Last Flame, A Letter from the Edge of a Dying World."
By Jacob M.
Dear Readers,
Last week, I bared my soul about the writer’s life “The Quiet That Lives in My Pen,” a story of how I found peace in words, and how I thank God for the gift that pulled me back from the edge.
If you’re back for Week 3. Last night, something prompted me to think about life.
The room was silent except for the distant echo of another explosion. Somewhere, a child was probably crying. Somewhere, a family was being buried under the weight of rubble and indifference. But in here, in this small, cracked room beneath a dying bulb, I was alone.
Writing. Again.
I’ve written thousands of words. Some spilt in rage, some whispered in prayer. Words for peace. Words against war. Messages for the world. I posted them everywhere: Substack, LinkedIn, a wall, a page, a platform, a whisper. Most of them vanished like smoke. Some were clapped for, and some were shared equally. But eventually, they were all forgotten.
They always are.
The world has a short memory for truth and an endless appetite for violence.
Every day I wake up and see the news, war again. Different names. Same blood.
We are always on the verge of something terrible. Always ready to catch each other by the neck.
I lit the last candle I had, even though I could barely afford it.
I wanted the room to feel alive just for this moment. Just for this one last letter.
I sat with my pen and notebook and whispered to myself: “Maybe this time, someone will listen.”
But that was a lie.
I’m not sure I believe anyone listens anymore. Not truly.
The ones who want peace are called naive.
The ones who speak of love are seen as weak.
The ones who beg the world to feel are left to rot in silence.
Still, I write.
"To the one who finds this,"
"Maybe you're like me, tired, aching, watching the world turn colder and more vicious by the hour."
I paused.
My hand trembled slightly. Not from age, but from exhaustion. From feeling too much for too long.
"You don't need to know my name. But I’ll give it to you anyway. I’m Jacob. I’ve seen peace die a hundred times in front of me. And every time, I wrote something. A prayer. A protest. A plea."
I thought of my mother. The way her eyes always searched mine for something more than what the world offered. She's gone. So is my father, strong, proud, always perfect, but deeply human. I miss them both. They raised me with heart and hope, in a world that taught me to bury both.
"I miss my parents every day," I wrote. "They taught me how to care, and now I live in a world where caring feels like a curse."
Someone once said to me, “Your parents raised you not to party.”
And they were right.
But what they didn’t understand is why.
My parents taught me to value silence over noise, depth over spectacle. They raised me to carry dignity, not dance for validation. And to be honest… I’m grateful they’re no longer here to see what this world has become. Or what I’m going through in life.
Because now, everything feels poisoned.
People don’t live, they feed. Like leeches, surviving off each other’s pain, sucking worth out of others just to fill the emptiness inside.
This isn’t living. This is decay with a smile.
Where money is God, and kindness is seen as weakness.
Where love is a lie sold in temporary doses, and souls are auctioned off to the highest bidder.
My parents were too sacred for this filth.
Too human for this hollow world.
Better they rest in peace than witness the mockery we now call “life.”
So no, I don’t party. I don’t pretend. I don't worship what others worship.
And I carry my parents’ silence like armour in a world that forgot how to feel.
I sat back for a moment. The windows and doors rattled with the wind. Raindrops fell like numerous bullets from a gun.
"I’ve been called dramatic. I’ve been told to 'get over it' or 'stay positive', but how do you smile in a world that sells bombs more than books?"
“Hmm”
"How do you sing when every choir has become an echo of mourning?"
Tears rolled down my cheek, silent. Not new. Not dramatic. Just… inevitable.
"I want to believe we can still be saved. But maybe that’s a lie we tell ourselves to keep breathing. Maybe extinction isn’t just about death, but about the death of feeling."
I thought of every post I made. Every time I poured my soul into a message. I begged people to see each other. To stop hating. To stop turning grief into spectacle. And still… they kept reaching for each other’s throats.
But you know what? I kept writing anyway.
Even when it felt useless.
Even when I felt like a ghost screaming at walls.
So I decided something, to do something unique, maybe…
I decided to fold the page slowly. It felt heavier than paper should.
I decided to place this letter in an old tin box. My father's, I think. The one he used to keep his shaving razors in when he was young. Seal it with wax and carve into the lid:
"For the one who still feels."
Maybe no one would ever read it. Maybe this, too, would be buried by dust and fire.
But at least I will try.
At least I will leave something behind that didn’t come from hate.
I sat there in the dark for a while after the candle went out.
Not crying. Not hoping.
Just… breathing.
I will now imagine, maybe.
After twenty years have passed.
I don’t know what the world will look like in twenty years, which might pass. I might not be there anymore.
That’s for sure, I remembered this and decided to mix some lines. I saw somewhere:
“From silence we are born, to silence we return. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, no riches follow us, no applause lasts forever. We come into this world alone, and when the curtain falls, we leave alone, too. What remains is not what we owned, but what we gave, what we felt, and who we dared to become in the dark.”
Remember, God watches us in everything we do. We will all be judged.
But the story won’t end in my room.
Someone will find the box while digging in the ruins of what was once a city. That person will have. Dirt-covered hands. Eyes that still believed in things. That person will open the box and find my letter.
Whoever finds it will read it once.
Then again.
Then they will read it to everyone.
They will paint it on broken walls.
They will print it on scraps of cloth and pass it from hand to hand.
It won’t become famous.
It won’t start a revolution.
But it will become real.
A piece of someone who felt everything, reminding others that they still could too.
And in a way I never expected… I was heard.
They will remember me, not because I was special.
But because I felt, in a world that tried to make people stop feeling.
Because I dared to write, even when no one was listening.
And somewhere, wherever spirits go, I will be there watching, hoping that this world will be a better place.
Not because the world was fixed.
But because someone found the letter.
Because someone still felt.
I will never be forgotten.
For I was and will always be the last flame.
I look forward to seeing you next week.
— Jacob M. / Awriterstip
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