All of my light references seem to be biblical — let there be… burden is… light, I suppose. And yet I also find light oppressive; too bright, too sunny as I sit in my hide cave — as I’ve so labeled my dimly lit space. Low lights are calming. My little apartment is surrounded with small sources of light — a desk lamp, light by the kitchen table, lights above, lights below.
Blinds and curtains hide from the encroaching sunlight — keeping me in its grey grasp; when it’s all too much, I dim the lights.
I suppose my street used to be fully lit. The street lights stand as witnesses to an earlier time — when it felt safe to venture outside in the dark — making a path to a no longer there grocery, a neighborhood that spreads to the highway — no longer a walkable space.
And there was — darkness and calm — heaviness, burden — uneasiness — bugs circle the few remaining porch lights, often left on by mistake — forgotten sources.
Light — there was — there is — in the cars that pass by, the few neighboring businesses that remain as the block turns over — to condominiums and high rise apartments. Don’t they need lights — a space to cross without feeling wary of the figures behind you, in front of us — the ones we avoid in the dark.
Maybe they won’t see us jumping from light to light.
Why are there so many streetlamps — but so few in working order, we wonder — trying to decide if it’s too late to run a quick errand. There was light, but they are fading. Light passes by. Never stays.