The lamp on my desk is almost a smaller version of the streetlamp outside, the same gracefully bent head, the same bubble of electric light harnessed and fastened to a hood. Anonymous dust carousing under tungsten in time with the snow, dancing shyly under the sodium.
He'd said last night that there was barely any light to see me by, and that it was probably bad for my eyes. Though, truth being, my eyesight hadn't gotten any worse in years, much to the constant surprise of my optometrist (who was very lovely and had sent me replacements for the faulty contact lenses). I'd harboured a secret and silly pride that my less-than-perfect eyesight was originally due to reading in places that were too dim and not due to computer screens.
There are days where one hides between pages of books, between lines of code where whitespaces seem to have more consequence than existence. The violin wails on the radio accompanied by the traipsing piano. She asks me what colour should she get married in? Rummaging through memories, I remember only my insignificance.
Posted by sniffles at February 11, 2003 07:09 PM