'19' Last Days Of Being a Teenager |Memoir

"Post Service" Prisoner

It's 8:38pm and there is no light.
My ceiling fan is motionless,
My room is a void of darkness,
Filled with cold after rain breeze transversing in through the kitchen and room windows.

Laying on my 6 inch mattress,
I get down from my bed and scramble around for my solar lamp but it's no where to be found.

Among the pile of laundry yet to sort my hands roam,
'Where's this damn lamp'!

As I touch clothe and air in this thick darkness I feel something through my fingers.
This object, insect or animal,

Is linear, smooth and in motion,
I caress a soft thread that seems to be emerging from a rigid frame,
'It's a candle',
Luckily, a lighter is beside it.

'When light comes darkeness vanishes'
The science of that I still can't wrap my head around,
The scary darkness is replaced by a warm yellowish flame that wholly lights up my minimal apartment.

The lamp I searched for I now see,
Laying carelessly at the base of the bathroom door.
I fall back to the bed and stare at the enlarged shadow of my static four-bladed ceiling fan.
And an inner thought speaks,
'You a prisoner in your own apartment'.

My crib is aesthetically perfect,
Yet Why? Does it feels like a prison?

Maybe, it is actually a prison,
Maybe, I just need some company,
Maybe I need to turn on the radio,
Sigh.
Maybe I just the power back on.