E:KO ᛟ HEIR — The Democracy of Darkness

Darkness is the most egalitarian thing in a room. It treats every object the same until light chooses a truth to tell. A candle interrupts this democracy gently—enough to see, not enough to judge. That’s why candlelight flatters faces and spaces: edges soften, warmth forgives, flicker distracts the critic in the mind.

Modern life is overlit. Screens bleed into evenings; ceilings hum with strips and spots; brightness becomes a kind of glare on attention. A single flame restores proportion. It creates pools of visibility in seas of shadow so people can choose their distance: more light if they lean in, more privacy if they lean back.

I watch the behavioural shift. One candle on the table and bodies crowd closer; voices drop a register; the room’s centre of gravity lowers by a few inches. The democracy of darkness remains—the corners stay wild—but now there’s a hearth, even if the hearth is the size of a thumbnail.

Darkness is becoming a luxury: rare, fought for, expensive in cities that never dim. A candle offers portable shadow—light with mercy. It doesn’t insist the room perform. It lets the room rest while remaining alive. That balance feels like dignity.