Some Bullshit About Lightbulbs

A lightbulb went out in my kitchen and I told myself that I’d go out the next day and get a new bulb to replace it, but I’d been out of work for almost a month at that point and errands seemed to get pushed to the side in favour of drinking gin, a task which was less illuminating.

So the kitchen remained dark, the gin kept flowing, I squinted at shitty meals I cobbled together for myself, and gave up reading magazines with my 2 pm breakfast because the words on the page were too hard to read without light. A desire to do things outside of my slightly dim apartment had shot down to somewhere near zero around week two of being out of work. I was now a bathrobe clad warrior of stagnation, and I fought all of my battles once the sun went down, and everything had closed. So I didn’t go buy a lightbulb.

Changing a lightbulb is one of the easiest things you can do as a human being. The whole operation takes less than forty seconds to complete, and when it’s over, you’ve literally brightened up a corner of the world.

I eventually went out and bought a lightbulb. My siege with the darkness had lasted 8 days. On the eighth day I walked out into the rain and headed to a nearby convenience store. When I got home I wrote a poem:

“Do you want to end the suffering?”
Asked the man I walked past
on the street.

He shoved a pamphlet at me
as he said it
and “I said no thank you.”

Of course,
I actually did want to end
the suffering,
I was just saying no
to the pamphlet.

He should have been
more clear
about who’s suffering was to be ended.
Was it mine?
was it his?
was it everyones?
I was going to tell him,
if I had stopped,
that if the answers to my suffering
were available in a pamphlet,
then I would have stopped suffering
long ago.

But I didn’t stop
because I needed
to buy lightbulbs.

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