Nightlight

The hour of witching is interrupted by the small light at the wall across by the foot of my bed. The nightlight catches me by surprise, as it throws my room into relief, and makes the world seem more vivacious than the usual knocked out darkness which implies that I should have been asleep long ago.

However, I haven’t had a nightlight in years, and so the thought of one illuminates an imagined image from childhood. Along the wall of which the nightlight is plugged into, I used to wish for a sister. Not entirely the one I had, but not separate either. I used to wish that we would be sisters, and that we would share a room. The room I pictured was mine, with two matching desks pushed up against the nightlight wall. And on each desk would be a lamp of white china, with small bud flowers painted as an accent in a dark magenta, joining the thin gold lines along the angles. And the lamps would have a golden brown lampshade, with fringes of brown beads hanging off of it, exactly like the lamp that does sit on my desk, though on the other side of the room, and never particularly something I liked. I did like the warm yellow light though, and I pictured the sister room filled with it, cast along the parchment paper walls that were purple, the same purple as the sheer curtains that hung along both mine and my sister’s windows in our separate rooms.

And I pictured me and my sister content to read or write at our desks, alone with each other for company, peaceful in the knowledge of another. There is nothing more I would have asked for, to be known and accepted without fuss, by someone simply sitting in the same space as I, focused on similar pursuits without question or the necessity of explanation of why we were doing what we were doing.

That world of comfort is ironic because I find myself rebelling against it in my very soul. I hold as a central tenant the idea that I would rather suffer than be content, because then I wouldn’t be wasting my life. And not would I be the hated type that easily luxuriated in their own privilege, never troubling to step outside their cozy little bubble.

I fear being complacent, of settling for a life of comfort when this is so much joy and sorrow out there to experience. And while I adore my reading and writing, it often feels as if I have wasted a day, wasted away inside, instead of luxuriating in what life has to offer. And so I find myself willing to suffer. On a family vacation, it would be most relaxing to sleep late and rest in air conditioning, yet instead I find myself willing to wake up and trek down to the beach, where I will be suffocated by heat, sweating and malnourished, because it is too hot to eat outside, discomforted by the sand and my bathing suit, all in the name of not doing nothing, and experiencing life. It is illogical, yet suffering is better than regretting that I did not chance the outdoors and the possibility of suffering, but also the possibility of laughter and joy.

But no, it is not my natural state to go to the beach, rather I am thrilled when it’s a rainy day and we all sleep late and stay indoors. Which is why I know that when it comes to life I am a coward. I tell myself to reject contentment, yet I suffer and reject it. I suffer when I do nothing, and I suffer when I do something, which seems to me like I was not made for life. I am grateful for it and do not want to waste it, yet I am also a coward that sometimes cannot face the stress of going outside, and would rather be comforted by my stories and thoughts and television shows, knowing the end of the day will come and it will have felt like a waste of a day because I could not face my discomforts and accept suffering by waking up and going to do something.

The self-hatred rises as this thought eddies in my head, and I open my eyes and attempt to shake it off. It is then that I realize that it is not a nightlight, rather it is the computer charger that is plugged into the wall, with the light shining due to the elevated position of the cord.

It is ironic that it is a computer charger, which represents our reliance on technology. It’s a far cry from the sisters who would read and write, read books and write by hand at their desks. Now, we stare at our screens like mindless robots, hunting for the next piece of media to consume and keep us distracted. Distracted from the thought that instead of watching a fake story, we could theoretically go outside and meet people, live and laugh, and experience one’s own life story, rather than consuming the shallow reflection of life that is fed to us through the screen. I internally scoff because I am a coward, and often wish to be subsumed by my laptop so that I don’t have to deal with the stressors and problems of that which we call real life.

It’s laughable I know, my own contradictions, and as I can’t fall asleep, I get up to go to the bathroom. Upon returning, it becomes horribly clear that I was wrong again, and now I know with certainty that the light is not from the small light on a computer charger, rather it is the light telling me that my camera battery has completed charging. And once more, it is ironic that I thought it was laptop adjacent, when in reality it is the exact opposite, where the laptop keeps you complacent inside, while the camera beckons you to go outside and do something worth capturing. To go live a little, live your own story and take photos, something seemingly worthless to do of someone who sits in bed all day, reading or watching TV. Even photographing the little girls at their desks is too dull, whereas something in life that evokes suffering or joy, pain or pleasure, sorrow or anticipation for something real and meaningful is worth a few hundred kilobytes of storage. And as I tell myself I want to do something that makes me feel alive, I snuggle down into bed and close my eyes, and let my conviction be swept away by the deep slumber that will end with an alarm, and the immediate adrenaline response of no, as I am forced to get up and live a little, with the full knowledge that last night I was strong and full of joie de vivre, and today I am wishing to return to the comfort of darkness and my bed, where no one but myself would say to me that they were judging the fact that by going back to bed I was wasting my life. I’ll sleep when I’m dead…or not. Weak. Who would even want to be my sister. I guess I lose either way.