There are always spots of light. I try to comprehend what I’m seeing, the small circles that stand out against the dark background, but I find it difficult, against my own ability. They’re even in different colors, green or red or white, as if Christmas arrived without my knowledge, even though I know for a fact that it’s seven months from this day. The calendar on my wall says so; I can see the faint letters reflecting from the dim light beneath it.


After staring at that small orbit, where my vision works, I turn away in unfathomable confusion and blink violently to rid myself of the electrical shade of grey that has remained behind my eyelids, a sure sign that there’s simply too much, too much.


It’s sudden and surprising that I long to feel a person next to me, someone I know will comfort me, give me a reason to ignore the lights, to simply get comfortable in my bed, no haunting thoughts to distract me from sleep. That is all I ask for.


Sadly, my wish goes unanswered as the night wears on, and my fast beating heart does not slow down in its agitation. The lights. They’re blaring in my eyes brightly, hurting. If only they would shut off once and for all, then perhaps I wouldn’t have to worry so much about their corruption on my soul.


Yet, at the same time, I never want the lights to leave. Where would I be without them? The soft glow from the round object standing proud upon the table beside me, the distant green and lonesome spot floating in seemingly midair above me, and the red blinking light revealing every few seconds a rectangular possession of mine. Yes, where would I be without them?


They captivate and hold our souls. They catch our attention without much effort but by glinting when we see them. They give us a reason to stay inside and do nothing but use them, watch them, listen to them.


In this building, within this room, secluded from the city plaguing the outside world, I ponder the greatness of the night—and the lights that seem to bring nothing but evil.

***

The morning sun shines through the opaque lids of my eyes, and I struggle with opening them, thinking the world is being taken over by the ugly hands of technology.


But the light is different, natural, blinding yet powerful.


So others exist, I’m reminded, and I lift my head to see through the transparent glass that seems to be blinking innocently, not knowing that the guilt I feel over my horrid bedtime story was a fear, just a fear, though I regret not waiting, not hoping.


It was the darkness of bedtime, keeping my dreams at bay.


But now I see, and the light is comforting.