The rich and poor alike desire to bring light into their homes. It is always a question of scale. “Skylight” is stifling in small quarters, but transformative in wide expanses. Imagine knowing any difference.
Our nights and days are roughly equal throughout the year, and when we close our eyes we access another world. Even in escape, we are tracing the same margins, warping its stories.
We call the punctured innards of our compressed, skyward-germinating houses by a poetic name: light wells, as if light pertains to attempts at mining. Think: canary in coalmine. Oh to thrive in a landscape of budding decay. Even if a projection needs some sort of medium to reflect it back, will the burden of place fold in the corners of your mind? When enclosures are given windows, limits dissolve, but do not unravel.
Here is a path, paved with good intentions. I think of trajectory as something spat out. Flung forth, instead of flight. Go ahead, be my guest. I will recognise the fall of your footsteps by the time you reach the stairs, and I will look up.
The light doesn’t trap, it merely grazes you on the cheek, asking “How do you like the view?” over and over like a metronome or maybe a pulse.
(2018)
Addendum: In November 2018, my very talented friend katcrunch created the following beautiful illustrations based on a snippet of this poem. Please enjoy.
