becoming a lamp

the webster’s dictionary definition of myself.

my room is lit entirely by himalayan salt rock lamps, night lights, christmas lights, and a shaded lamp because overhead lighting hurts my eyes and reminds me too much of a doctor’s office. sometimes i stare at the lamp in my room — i was told that if i stare too long at a light, i’ll go blind. but i try anyways.

yesterday, i stared at my lamp and had the strange thought of relatability.

how different am i from this lamp?

i don’t mean to sound feminist. “i am an object to the man!” but really. a lamp seemed more relatable than any pop song. lamps are so easily turned on and off. easily manipulated by one person. they’re either bright enough to blind someone or dark enough to be useless.

when a lamp doesn’t work, what do you do? change the lightbulb. everytime i change the lightbulb in my lamp, i can’t help but think of my head being labotomized. rubber gloves cupping around my brain and replacing my personality, my memories, my conscious with a new one.

i’m so attached to something that won’t talk. it has no soul. why would i relate to something that’s literally soulless?

how am i different…