When clouds cast themselves in front of the moon, and a field surrounded by lamps becomes lost to the void of empty, dark space, any living being within the area, now forgotten to the light, does not simply vanish. Such life has managed to occupy an atmosphere of total purity, or perhaps of unspeakable absence. The field begins to spin, and each blade of grass seems to have its own unique set of auditory implications, spanning from that of utter isolation to that of controlling a fragment of infinity, binding it to something concrete, interpreting it not at all, claiming its splendor through a bedtime story a decade in the future. It all means something, but then, does it really mean anything? A tapestry of vague conceptions and unwavering stillness is the principal facet of the field at night, yet solely as the lights are dimmed and put out by some lack of anticipation. Therefore, it must be so that the singular method to maintain sanity is to experience light, and by extension, any corner of the mind is capable of revealing itself at any point, though one at a time and not as a collective, concurrent entity.
Backpacks filled with the necessities—books, laptop, pens, water, love notes, snacks, course packets, planner, pretty rocks from the street, pencils—weigh us down for miles at a time. Upon returning to our place of residence, these bags are dropped the exact moment that the door shuts, and we are left once again stranded in the same lightless field, only with the caveat that the grass has turned to a multicolored rug. Feeling suddenly so weightless is nearly disconcerting, so we convince ourselves that perhaps we need to remove one particular item from the bag, thereby facilitating a sequence of events—one beginning and ending with the backpack and with no supposition of illumination’s existence anywhere. As the hefty bag once more rests on our shoulder, a switch is flipped, both literally and figuratively, and the fact that a sticky note carrying handwritten directions to complete certain urgent obligations is lingering within the bag becomes apparent, and the light facilitates our reading of these reminders, so we then proceed to accomplish what is necessary, which also involves a bright screen from which we are able to deliver an email and submit an assignment prior to 11:59 p.m, before being aided finally by the overhead light as we throw the laundry in the dryer.
We feel overstimulated, reincarnate darkness, and sit on the edge of the bed. Our phone vibrates from that same bag, and despite the switch having already been turned off, the room is filled with this new vibrance—an environment of productivity and awareness. It soon fades, however, bringing rise to an unknown arrangement of the floor—the walls are the floor, the ceiling is the floor. The floor itself is the prospect of chance, although it is too exhausting to determine what is what in a pitch-black room, and when our eyes are shut, the room appears the same anyway. Which is more comfortable? Drowsiness is sudden, like the dropping of the backpack by the door, and soon it is morning. Darkness hides.
In a way, there is absolutely no rationale to substantiate the scrutiny of material lighting, and yet the notion is a fascinating one that radiance is all that renders us cognitively able. This way, the street lamps direct us when all else fails. Beams of light prevent us from losing our way, blinking a map of our route in our minds, or depicting, on a backlit screen, an actual image of where we are heading. For many, the click of the bedside lamp insinuates the end of a day, as well as the commencement of a multitude of ideas to be conjured under the following beacon of inspiration, around which our planet and minds orbits. If not, then we have since actualized our prerequisite of light through technology and expectation.
Defining activity as a byproduct of light surely is exponentially more comprehensible to those who currently have or who have ever had a roommate, as at certain points, roommates must discretely establish their own lit path, perhaps with a flashlight on a phone pointed toward the floor. As we walk, the light moves with us, until we can get ourselves in order and step into a hallway or another room that has its own space to be lit from above. Stepping into convenience blissfully results in some indebtedness to the light above. Living in light, or living a productive life at all, while balancing commitments and desires, is unfathomed in the dark, and the brilliance of art or of applied science will both support these assertions, which merely serve to fortify the argument, and so any student will rise and grab their bag, wonder into the depths of a field where no light resides, sit in the tall grass with the mosquitos and ants, toss the bag aside, and either keep their eyes open or close them gently, reaching the same confluence of containment and chaos, just for one night off.