I replaced my room’s bulb today, and in the middle of the affair, it felt like a lifeless breath, a breathless gasp went through me. Not that I’d to shell out some bucks, but I could see myself reflected in that business: I’m a bulb after all, replaceable; I could be lying around forgotten. I get fused and I’m throw; with utmost care cradled unto my haven– trash bin. I’m a bulb. At least one will, as I regretfully do, yearn for my warm golden glow when the tiring white light feels like a noise, a whitespace, a blank, a cog (never a column). It didn’t start out as an act of inspiration, and perhaps it isn’t one. A bulb– aged, fused, sooted– replaced!
End of the story.
PS: It was an incandescent lamp that I replaced with those new ones (I don’t want to name it, it’s so gross and unpoetic).
Things Adil Writes 