Not to be found in the world of objects.

Several nights ago, I stepped into my bedroom and flipped up the switch. When the light spilled out on top of the room's darkness, all of these objects lining my walls and my floor leapt up to greet me. And it seemed so odd that they, these sudden things, existed anew only now that I was present. A couple mugs, keyboard, clothing, computer, guitars, records, rows of books, all things that seemed only just now relaxed from an anxious, wire-framed tensity. Crouched in potentiality. Endlessly decomposing lest I interfere. I felt the guilt of their dependence, and I felt them curdling beneath a skin of vigor, standing just so, for me to impress upon them. What if I stepped back again, flipping that switch for blooming darkness. Now, what if I could let them be on their own.