The light of my light

Things have been cracking for a while now. Walls, scratches on tables, even some floor tiles…I used to mistake those for genuine lines of demarcation. It is easy to make such errors, especially if you don’t see those things ever breaking.

Today I went to wash my hands and, in a manner I have got accustomed to, I blindly opened the tap. Then I heard a strange sound, like grating music. I turned my gaze below my wet palms. There were what looked like egg shells. I picked up one piece and it hurt, almost. The light bulb over the basin had broken. I am aware that like everything else light bulbs too have a lifespan and one changes them. But they go quiet; rarely do they die in your presence. You realise they are no more when you turn on the switch and get a dark response.

This bulb did not just die; if metaphor be applied to it, the death must have been gruesome. For, together with it was the holder that held it. Was the bulb deceived? If I recall correctly, this one had been replaced only a few days ago. Imagine you depend on something, trust it rather blindly to hold you, knowing that the respite from darkness is dependent on you and you on that socket and then it falls and takes you down with it.

What I noticed was the glass pieces were all spread out stuck to water (can something stick to water?) but one bit was still clinging on to that holder. It was a truly poignant scene as though it still believed even when all was over that something was not, perhaps a sliver of pain.

As usual I used my bare hands to pick up the remains; most had turned to powder, some left a couple of lines on my fingers; then I picked up the holder, a dull brass with that white sticking to it. I felt like shedding a tear, but refrained.

Everything is not to be mourned for because not everything that is around belongs.

I just looked at it longer than I should have…a dead light.