Turn Off the Lamp

“’If walls could talk?’ Well, what does that matter? I am a lamp. These walls don’t even talk to me, but they sure like to stare.”

——————————————————————————————————————

How did this all happen, you may wonder, seeing as I was not always this way. We live many lives, as many as cats even, if you can believe it; and I was once just like you, reading this.

Yes, it’s true—and before you go asking, I speak in short paragraphs with a sharp tongue lest I reveal before my time is spent, so I must not. It is true, though. I am a lamp, and you see, I predicted this fate, one might say.

THERAPY ON A GLOOMY DAY

How perfect. Set the mood. Beige tones, life stones, out of touch—just a bit. The therapist asks me their questions. She is not the first, but she is my last. I feel as though I am speaking through a wall of glass, underwater is my voice. Does she even hear me? She wants to put my brain on YouTube for a picking. Hah! Isn’t that what I am here for, the opposite? No more picking on nor at me. What the fuck, man?

I play into the game. I have to do it on my terms... My own way, so they think I’m following the rules; but they second-guess every few minutes. My game. It’s fun but not funny. I take home assignments—again, what the fuck?

I already passed school. Fresh hell that was, huh? I don’t ask that you agree, but I’m sure you understand. And I write all the damn time. I am here behind three and a half walls, someone always looking in. Damnit. No, I don’t want to write this. I play the game only because I have so many questions, and maybe it will lead to answers.

Spoiler: it does not.

Just mazes and math equations, which is absurd because I’m a person of science. That’s biology, right? But really... Chemistry, history, I can do that. We are creatures of habit, after all. And in my habits, good and bad, I have learned their trippy dance, so yeah, I understood the assignment. So I did it.

I come back on a sunnier day, though just less gloomy—still!—and feed my demons to the lady across from me. She’s starving today, and I never see them again. I wonder what she did with them? Fast-forward to a more present, pleasant time... Bottle to “banish inner demons” and a wreath on my door made of dried fruits and flowers to keep that bitch out.

Ah, yes, I was a witch then. That is my bloodline, and I hardly consider that human. I’ve been here before you. I have seen those that actually feed on ones like you and me. I have fed too. It’s one—though not the only—way to survive, and, you know, live a long life. A young life, they say. But youth can only be wise when they’ve lived a hundred years or more. Drink up. Stay hydrated. Water, of course.

Don’t forget, I am still underwater. A glass wall between us all. I am falling deeper and deeper, peacefully. The demon in the mirror may as well be a metaphor, but I did see it. And the walls keep watch. They know something... We were not on good terms then.

UNDER RECONSTRUCTION

An era begins as another ends. I won’t recount my steps or retell my story I told the therapist. She isn’t very relevant, or maybe I am bitter. What I do recall is that she wanted to know which piece of furniture I would be; and how lame, I thought. Near me was a lamp, but in another life I had thought of this. I just knew. I wonder, Is this my third or fourth life?

I said I was a lamp. Past-tense. Irony, then. People can turn a lamp on and off, but it cannot itself. So it could learn just how bright it could be, when to dim, flicker about. Scare the whole damn house—lights out! And lamps are everywhere, just as I seemed to be in some parts of my life. But after so long, a lamp burns out.

That was my past. I was not a lamp anymore. I was something else. Did my due diligence, so I must have dreamt. Like my dear man in the picture hanging on a haggard wall, time was on our tails. I said I would not be caught. Too many are. Ah, but they don’t mean to be. Now I get it.

I could have let go. I almost did. But I wanted to rise above. I started to carve a hole again when that half wall was finally whole. I dug and dug, after having already made the grave I laid in. Too comfortable. Throw the old pillows out. Too many sounds. Bass pulsing through the mattress, through the ground... Ceiling. Wall. Huh.

And I remember that face on the wall from before, from back there—then. How I had always seen faces in textures, like, on granite counters, in all the patterns and the cracks. Catch me studying the floor, while people around complain about school and work. Riding buses with knees pulled in. Subways, signs, seasons, and changing, all in due time.

Faces. Faceless. Places. Striving for perfection, too, the perfect place: impossible. Paradise is purgatory right-side up. Get that. Do you? Get it, I mean. And we are in orbit; I said it before. And we will always be. And we must evolve. And we must be exactly who we’ve always been, though the traffic and slow-towns may leave their mark.

Looking for a face again, naturally. My own or yours? Who are you? What are we...doing here? Meh. I bought two lamps—couldn’t relate anymore. The room lights are always too bright, so is much else. But natural light is the greatest of all, my favorite, even perfect. I turn off the lamp.

INTO THE RUSH

If we speed up again, somehow, I got here. A lamp. Always needed. Companion to all furniture, and absolutely, to walls. Though in the past I befriended a genius in them, I have never been one. I have had many a conversation with, but perhaps it was all in my head. Perhaps I am not even this thing to give light. Either plugged in or charged up, and without a light bulb—off.

I cannot relate to walls, however, so maybe in the next life. That wallflower thing? Tried it. Not me. An observer, yes, and certainly reserved at times, particularly, in the wrong crowd. Who isn’t? I have not a clue, but none of this is too important; it just is. I will keep living my lives. I will be whatever I am next.

And these walls, they don’t even talk to me. They sure do look. Like any other wall, all they do is look.

——————————————————————————————————————

MDCCCLXXVII (AUG.)

My dear Galen,

I am writing you this to tell you that though my loneliness had got the best of me last I wrote you, which you expressed concern over, you need worry not. See, I have had an epiphany... Hmm, a breakthrough, really. I feel as though I have stumbled on a secret power of the super-kind, and I do not wish to alarm you, for even the men here whisper about it... About me, saying, He’s gone mad! I truly think there is no better way to be, mi amore. And there you are so far from me, and here I am where you should be. The white sands and clear oceans that birthed you...

Well, anyhow, I have fallen off track again. As I was saying: The loneliness within has subsided, though I do long for our reunion at last, once and for all; and well, what I discovered was that I have friends in the walls. Everywhere I go. Any room I am in, but especially the one I am to lay my head in to rest. Before you get smart about this and that, start asking me questions, you and your logic, sweet angel... No, these are not men or humans of our make, flesh and bones, in any of these walls. I am not that mad!

As it is, walls are not just for standing or looking, they are for holding our sanity. They listen. They absorb much more than just weather and mold, why, they take in our conversations, and they just might put in their two cents. All one needs to do is listen back.

I ask you to hold on, too. Maybe you shall hear me anywise. The moon is good for that, by the way. And maybe within walls words can travel to others. The funny thing is, the voice in the walls does not change for me; and as much as I wish it were your voice, it is not nor mine. It remains, and I think it has always been there, as when you were near me... Just beside, your head reaching under the pit of my arm, where you would stay nestled there, so lovely, comfortably.

Now time has got the best of me, alas. The walls would laugh at that, such a woodsy, familiar laugh that creaks. I wish to talk to you now, Gælen. This letter will have to do as far as “mean-time.”

Turn the lamp on for me, yes, light it, though you prefer the dark. Talk to the walls if you can fathom such a thing. I hope this reaches you just before eve. It is twilight here, oh, what a sight!

Signed, William, with love

——————————————————————————————————————

Author's note: Oh, just me, altering the events of one's own life. This is not only a story of time travel but timelines in a (little) life, and how it's all connected by a single thread, whether tomorrow or last century or so. And to reveal too much unravels the mystery of said "life."