Light

The light switch doesn’t go on on its own. But you’re too tired of getting up and trying now. It is too far away and you would rather stay on your bed and cry about it.
It isn’t getting any closer to you with your whining but that’s the only thing you learnt to do to deal.

You cry and you deal.
Except this time, the dealing is a little too habitual and the machine in your head is too rusty.
You’re in this house since two years doing the same thing every day and not expecting anything new. It keeps getting darker everyday. You don’t know the windows behind the curtains. You only know to peek.
You like the comfort of the dark. You don’t have to look at the bruises on your face. You smashed the mirrors anyway.
You let your anger out in quiet screams in the pillow, sometimes just nothing but heavy breathing which the walls absorb inside them and dull their colours. They’re sad with you.

Four walls where your hurt is tangible, where it makes sense. So you stay there.

That’s why the walls seem dirtier. That’s why the paintings seem lower and the curtains seem grimier. They block the sun for you. You got burnt once, you won’t let it happen again.
The light is just above your head, a bit dusty and scarcely used.
Nights are the same as day. Dark still the same. Light still the same. You want to change it but it’s over there, where the face of your ghosts stares at you.

The ghosts that you let haunt you for enough time already and now they’re just remnants of your mind. They are you remembering them now.
This one day, one Thursday, you’re bored of the comfort.

So now you get up one last time, try to raise your hand and reach the curtains.

There are different ways for the light to come in.