Illumination
The natural comfort this apartment offered when it first became mine is still intact. The recent problems with the air conditioning system, a normally stolid generator of warmth that would bring torrid doom to any man who did not court heat so fervently, have done nothing significant to diminish my love for the room. During the earliest days of my tenancy, I noted the faintest shiver of trepidation over the thought of the conditions that my first winter would bring, though I was quickly calmed when I was informed of regulations on building temperatures that would guard against my frigid fears.
The only enduring sliver of nervous anticipation I've ever had for my room's future came into being slightly later. I walked into my bathroom upon one afternoon to discover that a new dimness had come to occupy that cramped space.
I should mention that my disregard for the aesthetics of my surroundings does not simply extend to the realm of the porcelain throne. Instead, it crosses the border into that musty zone and expands. It breaks off and forms a new empire of disregard, taking a dirty beige shower curtain for its flag.
For this very reason, the lowering of the light in that section of my apartment was not enough to bother me, but it made me aware of the possibility that the remote reaches of future months would see the demise of the bulb that brought tender and dependable illumination to the main room.
I have changed bulbs in my time, but I have always done so after long years in which I was able to develop intimate, trusting relationships with the fixtures that held them. Though the presence of this light has consistently provided me with pleasant company, those erstwhile bonds have not been matched. I suspect the presence of unruly matter within the confines of its translucent dome. There was one summer day on which I returned from work to find a solitary leaf that dangled ominously on a thread attached to its glass. I still don't know what to do with that.
The situation is exacerbated by its location directly above my desk. I do not desire to know what rogue particles could fall and mix themselves in amongst the fairly sterile clutter that adorns my table.
On Friday, I rose to turn on the light, seeking the extra motivation that it generally bestows upon a body in the middle of its escape from slumber. Though I had dutifully switched it off before I lay myself down on the previous night, it would not come on. The remaining daylight convinced me to delay my concerns on the matter and go about normal business.
While I wandered the streets, two things befell me. One was the early darkness of winter, and the other was the realisation that the potentially fearful changing of the bulb could be postponed further by the acquisition of an obsolete lamp from the desk of my father's vacant study.
When I returned from this journey, I eagerly plugged it in and oriented it towards the ceiling, allowing it to cast a new glow that only served to enhance the amniotic ambience of the apartment. It still looks slightly weird when I look directly at the celing, but that's basically what ceilings are for anyway. I have now convinced myself that I will never need to change the original bulb, and this makes me happy.
Bonus Question!
Best Doctor Light? The one from "Mega Man" wins by virtue of not being a rapist.