Every time that I lie down on my bed, I look up and see this empty bulb socket staring at me in the face. I look at it and I think about it.
I like to think that there was once a bulb tightly screwed in there and then imagine that one night it fell out and onto the face of the person who once lay on this bed before me. I know nothing about the person who occupied this small space, but I keep discovering signs unintentionally left behind by him or her. I think it was a her. The bathrobe that still hangs behind my bathroom door, a pinkish yet clear bottle of perfume left behind in what is now my bathroom, even a leftover a pair of spectacles with very low power. It probably was a her, I’ve heard stories.
There are many lights in this room, but just one empty and cold light socket. I like to imagine that she didn’t screw a new bulb into this socket for fear of it falling out again.
Behind the light socket, there’s this long crack in the ceiling. It fades away in places and disappears, only to reappear after a small gap. I like to look at it like a sentence, with words and spaces in between each word. Maybe the crack is a seamless flow of a combination of words that I’m waiting to discover: the right combination of them is what I mean.
When I put the lights off, I no longer see that crack, but I still feel its presence. It bugs me a little bit because it reminds me of an itch that is insatiable because it lies not on your skin, but under it. The only way to scratch that itch is to tear away at your skin until you reach the under part, the spot where the itch is. Scratching that itchy spot is probably the easy part, but putting the skin back on top of it to cover up the exposed part is the hard part, and who knows, the itch may come back once the skin is fully repaired.
And then all of a sudden, I snap out of it to the cracking sound of a knife spreading butter on an overly hard toast in the morning. It’s a happy ending that ends with a crunch. Funny how those even exist.