The Night LIght
Structure - Most nightlights are not the same, I've found. I’ve found that even if two nightlights do the same thing, and share the same task, they never really look identical. Some come in round shapes, others in box shapes, some even built into stuffed animals, made for comfort and love. For a long while I thought my structure was my home, those I grew up with and had come to know, my bedroom where I cried and laughed. I’ve since found that it isn’t my bedroom at all, but myself. My skin, my limbs, my eyes, my eyelashes, my fingernails, my wrists, they are all mine. Others may have blue/green eyes, and my pale skin, but they will never be exactly me. People have come and gone in my life but In an ever changing world, I am constant. Though I don’t get to choose where my freckles lay, or where my stretch marks brew, I do get to choose to love them. Though I don’t get to choose how people look at me, I do get to choose to live anyway. Though I cannot stop time from running out of my hands, I do get to choose to stop chasing it.
Style - The outer layer of a night light may be bright, it may be dark, it may be neutral and dull. The same way that clothes can make an outfit dark or bright or dull. I often, maybe almost clicheally, look at my clothes as my style. A lot of times it changes, like the colors and shapes that a night light displays across a room. I find that I can find colorful outfits when the sun is out, though when it gets dark it’s hard for me to want the bright colors. In a way, my night light and I both work opposite of each other. It feeds me the light that I lack in the dark, and I show it the beauty of darkness during the day. Growing up my clothes stayed bright and colorful and full of dreams and fruits and princesses. I guess looking at it now I’ve noticed a stark contrast. My clothes no longer make my closet burst with flavor but rather show the dullness of the way I see myself. Something I work at every day to change and modify to my liking. I no longer have the same dreams I once had, or like the same princesses that I did when I was six. Younger me might be confused if she saw me now, question in her eyes. I think I’d just hug her and tell her I’m still searching. I search in my closet, my head, my room, the stores I go in, my bag. It’s a strange feeling, no one really talks about it, to be searching for something you don’t know you lost.
Cohesion - Wires and strings, protective layers and bulbs, the makings of a night light. Without it a night light would not exist. Together everything runs as one and produces something so signifying in the dark, so welcoming in a void. When I’m in the dark and can’t feel my way out, I turn to art. Sliding my headphones on and picking up a brush has never been foreign to me. Through the chaos of my life, my art has followed me everywhere. It has made its way into my saddest sobs and my most dazzling days. Some of the most surreal moments are when I turn my mind on and actually create something after a day of dull blindness. Some days turn into ghostly ones, where I’m a mist following the motions, ears off and eyes glued somewhere off into a corner. When my brain is finally back on, the colors make sense and poetry with instruments chime with my thoughts. To be understood, to be heard, such beautiful feelings that cannot be compared to any other worldly concept. I never said my art was good, but that’s sort of the whole point, isn’t it? Art is subjective.
Strength - Batteries are a common way to power a nightlight, though some are solar-powered, and others chargeable. No matter, they gain their strength from another source. When I look at my best friend it’s like I feel the power seep back into my body. She doesn’t drain me like the typical human being does. Her laugh makes my heart pump three extra beats. For every “I love you” there is a star in the universe. For every bad omen, curse, tragedy, misfortune, there is her love. Over the years she has been the single thing that has held me from breaking. She makes jokes and cracks smiles so that my tears run dry and my dimples finally wink at her. Sometimes I look at her when she doesn’t notice and I see the most beautiful girl in the whole world. I look in the mirror and I see parts of her, which is so strange. Her soul and mine must be made of the same backbone. My worries often make me feel alone, depressed, and lonely. When I talk to her she often also has the same worries. I don’t think it’s so bad when I look at her. If everyone around me is looking at me funny, questioning what I’m doing, looking down upon me, she is there, nodding her head. In every room, I’d look for her first. There isn’t many I can describe quite like her.
Durability - A hard plastic, produced by companies, in warehouses, manufactured to pristine touch and shipped off. A hard plastic that protects the nuts and bolts that make a night light, light. If it weren’t there all the wires and chemicals would get everywhere, endure damage, and be ruined within a short frame of time. Whether it’s from the books I read or the movies I watch, the words I consume keep me stable. From my parents who guide me and lecture me or my siblings that make snide remarks or encourage me. Everything I read, whether I remember it entirely, affects me. It affects how I feel about relationships from the past and in the present. I’ve changed how I feel about myself thanks to the many books I’ve read. I’ve grown to accept the faults because through the words others have shared, it isn’t just me in this world. I think about a world where no one could speak. Where no one could write. Where American Sign Language doesn’t even exist, where a language is not present. It could bring me to tears, the thought. Of course there are other means and modes of expression, through bodies and touch, through emotion and style. But there is nothing like words. To be spoken to, to have someone else use my name is such an intense and intimate feeling. To be known. To be acknowledged. To live.
Direction - “What do you want to do with your life?” The day old questions that tires everyone’s tongues and my ears. I can’t believe they ask that to kindergarteners, kids who are only worried if there's cookies in their lunch box for later. I surely don’t remember wanting to be anything but fed when I was that age, and I can’t really be sure that I don’t still feel the same way. I listen to my friends and hear what they want to do. A nurse, nutritionist, marine biologist, Psychologist, lawyer, military, it goes on. I can feel myself shrink back into my shell, dull the lights around me, and hover above the water. I don’t know. Three words that have haunted my life. I wonder if the stars shine in specific spots of the world. Do they know that they even shine? Does one HAVE to know they shine in order to do so? My night light glows brighter than my eyes some days. It goes in all directions, across my room, upon my door and even reaches the ceiling. Is it wishful thinking that I can do the same? I don’t know. That, I guess, is the fun part of life. At least that’s what they say, the “not knowing.” All I DO know is that I’d like to be everywhere. I want to touch surfaces I didn’t think I could, meet people I never knew I needed, help those who want closure, meet someone who doesn’t think it’s hard to love me, and maybe touch the ceiling.
