Flashlight

Imagine you're a flashlight.
Lightbulb, batteries, the whole nine yards.
You get put on a shelf after you've been made.
It's not long before you know: you're a flashlight.

There is no question in your mind that you are a flashlight.
Yes. That is who you are.

So you, the flashlight, get left on the shelf most of the time.
Thrown in a backpack on occasion.
Set out on the counter during thunderstorms.

But never turned on.

You are no less a flashlight because you aren't being used.

Your identity is not contingent on being turned on.
On what you actually do.
You are. Because you were made to be.

A flashlight.

But how long does it take before you start wondering what your purpose is?
When will you start wanting to be... used?

At what point do you wonder if anyone needs your light?

It's not an identity crisis. You know who you are.

A flashlight.

You are so aware of who you are.
So aware, you know you weren't made to just sit on a shelf.

You know all it would take is a flip of a switch.
All you'd have to do was be carried into the darkness.
Where you'll be useful.

Sitting on the shelf doesn't make you any less of a flashlight.

You just know you were made for more than this.