Coco de Bruycker

Do You Have A Light?




A Saturday morning. A guy. A woman running towards him. First he thought she would just
pass him. Well, probably he rather hoped. “Do you have a light?,” she asked him. He
blinked. “I’m sorry?” She gestured towards the cigarette she played with between her
fingers. He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry.” She chuckled. “Oh, yes you do.” She meets his
eyes. They were pitch black, he could almost see himself in them. “I can see it burning in
your soul,” she shouted running in the direction he was coming from.

He blinked. It’s a Saturday morning. A guy, himself. A woman, running. He was too shy to
gaze after her, so he carried on. At the store around the corner he bought himself a pack
of cigarettes. Actually he has had a light. His mother gave it to him for finishing high
school. Actually he had given up smoking since then. “Everyone is good. Be better,
Beautiful” was engraved at the backside. He sighed spinning it on his flat palm as his
mother always does before lighting up.

“Why are you hiding, Florian. Do I know you, anyway?,” his mother blows out some smoke.
It is Saturday night. The first Saturday after graduation. She is sitting on the bench right
across from him. Her blonde hair pours over her shoulders. In the candle light it glows like
honey. “You’re one of the best in your year, why do you keep hiding your light under a
bushel? Just tell me what you wanna do now.” He doesn’t know what to say. “You know I
support you with anything. But I can only inflame you, you have to burn for yourself. Didn’t
I inspire you since you were born? Tell me, honey. You know I just want the best for you.”

He knew. That was the problem. “Why are you hiding? I knew I know you from
somewhere.” He looked up. It’s the woman who had just run past him. He blinked.
“See? I knew you had a light.” She sat down a little further across from him. Florian threw it
to her, caught. He cleared his throat. “Where do you live? I’ve never seen you before
around here.” She laughed. “What does it matter, Sherlock? You don’t strike me as the
one who focuses on these things, anyway.” He chuckled. She pierced him with her gaze.
The silence weighted heavily over them. Suddenly something dripped on the back of his
hand. “Fuck pigeons… that’s the first time someone actually shitted on me,” he cursed
playfully. He blinked. He could feel her eyes piercing him. The longer the silence lasted, the
more he could feel discomfort creeping up his neck, vertebra by vertebra. Say something,
anything! You’re such a fuck-up! Just say anything!, he thought. He blinked. “Why do you
fuck yourself so many times a day, Flow?,” she blew out smoke, still looking at him, or
rather into him. He wanted to do something, to shut down, to get his guard up. He felt
naked, however, for some reason he began to ease into it and the discomfort turned step
by step into delight. He could feel warmth boiling up his spine, like fresh wax. Just before
he started to feel completely comfortable, she got up and took his hand. “Are you ready
for the best night of your life?,” she said and started running. With him. “Where are we
going?” — “Does it matter?”

Florian could hear music from the distance, hand in hand with the dawn. A few people
had already been gathering at Washington Square. Her colourful dreadlocks danced up
and down heading to the arch with him. “What’s going on over there?” Another guy had
set up some speakers. The first people started jamming to the beat, his blood began to
boil up his face. “Has this been planned anyway?,” he was dumbfounded. For the first
time ever, she smiled at him. He froze. “It’s as you see it: Either everything’s a plan or
nothing,” she patted his chest. “Naw, now, come on.” She pulled him to the people. They
watched him. And for the first time in his life, he liked being watched.

It wasn’t because of him or because of her, it was because he felt some fire flooding his
soul, slowly, vertebra by vertebra. “That’s what I’m talking about!,” she shouted and
DO YOU HAVE A LIGHT? !1
started clapping. The crowd joined her, joined them, they melted into one unit. His hands
and lips were prickling while the beat of the music pounded through his veins and united
with his heartbeat in a way he had not known before. He gasped for air, his feet melted
into the floor, they were overwhelmed by the energy circulating in the crowd and his
body’s weight in it.

He fell on his knees, took a breath and started to cry. It was a Saturday night. The night he
learned to breathe, the night he felt himself for the first time. A guy, himself. A woman. A
pair of arms wrapped around his chest and pulled him back up. She turned him around
towards her face and smiled. “I can’t breathe no more,” he said. “I knew you know you
can.” That moment he burst. Tears rolled down his cheeks, first he tried to hide them, but
people started hugging him, smiled at him, whispered in his ears and comforted him. He
feels like he belongs.

“See, you were burning by yourself,” she said on the way back home. He chuckled.
“Would you believe me, if I tell you that it’s exactly what my mom has been telling me for
years?” She took his hand: “What does it feel like?” — “What do you mean?” — “Stepping
out of her shadow. Standing up for yourself.”


It’s a Sunday morning and I feel foreign but at ease. I take a breath. Haha, I feel like a
baby for some reason, yet more mature than yesterday. I’ve always wanted to be an
artist. I love painting with words. It’s unloading my heart every time world overwhelms me. I
allow myself to be overwhelmed now, I embrace it. I use it for the better.



You always tell me to be strong, be tough, lead, be productive, be a man. But want does
a man make, anyway… I was never told to let it go, let it all out. In a man’s world, you
don’t see me cry, grow weary — only grow wise, tall, strong. Sometimes I need to fall.
Sometimes I need to fail. Sometimes I need your arms. Sometimes I need you to guide me.
I found myself that night and it was really the best of my life. I write. I write because I know I
can and I know I need to. I need to write because I’m an artist in a man’s world.

You’ve been looking down on me, to me, that’s why I couldn’t say what I burn for. I know
you want me to be safe, not to leave the spot that has everything for me. It makes me feel
like a fish out of water. I’m different, yet I’m just like you. I have eyes that see what you
think and I have the words you never speak because you’re afraid someone would turn
you down: dimming your light. But that’s what makes you feel alive. That’s what reveals
your actual human superpower: because you’re a creator — and you are judgemental.

What does it make you feel being a judge? Is it powerful. And it is comfortable. It’s a habit,
inside your box. In your box people have to be a certain way, smell a certain way, dress a
certain way, speak a certain way, look a certain way, sound a certain way, think a certain
way, work a certain way, love a certain way, hate a certain way, respond a certain way
and express a certain way. What if — outside the box — there is a light, more powerful,
bright and fulfilling than want you’ve ever imagined? The world outside is a burning blast,
a fire field full of passion and compassion that makes you break through your own shell
and gives your proactive, protective security guard a break for a while. If you let it be. Let
me be.

I’ve been looking for an answer, a solution to be how you want me to be. You said I’m not
old enough, not experienced enough, not confident enough, not handsome enough, not
strong enough, not smart enough, not sophisticated enough, not competent enough,
clear enough, not creative enough.

Enough. I am so grateful to you because you made me the way I am and the way my
eyes see the world. I am so grateful for your inspiration, your curiosity, your open heart. You
yearn for something greater, just like I do. So I wrote you this. I wish it to break your heart,
DO YOU HAVE A LIGHT? !2
just like it took me to get here. I’m just this artist in a man’s world. A man — fragile,
vulnerable, yet still strong, if you let me.

“I knew you had a light, Flow!,” she puts the book down and kisses him. “You’ve never told
me your actual name,” he says. She rests her head on his chest. “What does it matter,
Sherlock?” This time he pierces her with his gaze. She laughs, blinks and spins the lighter on
her flat palm as his mother always does before lighting up. She draws on the cigarette
between her lips. The little red dot glows in the dark. She takes a breath. “Give me a
name.”

DO YOU HAVE A LIGHT? !3