I have wanted to sit under the deep yellow light of the street lamp that stands beside the red brick wall adjacent to my house. I want to sit there, but only when I am as calm as the old lamp itself, when the occurrence of a thought in my mind becomes as rare as a flicker of the light. I've been glancing towards that lamppost since I was a child and I'm sure it's seen more of this world than I have. I wonder how long that mustard light will continue to illuminate that desolate corner. I wonder how long it will illuminate my life. For I seem to lose track of time when I gaze at the lamp, the yellowness pervading my mind till this world ceases to be of importance. Till all the angst and betrayal of dreams is burned away by the yellow fire it spews out.
I wonder if it is foolish to seek comfort in an inanimate object as inconsequential as the old lamp. It seems wise, though,this lamp of the yellow corner, like an old advisor, clad in yellow robes, it's only duty to dispel my every sorrow. I don't know why it's become such a constant in my life, but I wouldn't have it any other way. At least among this change obsessed world there exists a beam of light pure and strong enough to evade the darkness of change. I want it to remain the same, even though I can't, however much I may try. The hand of nature spins us all in a vicious circle of life and death, of good and evil, of everything and nothing. And the only way to escape the cycle is to center yourself, to find the eye of the hurricane, where the calmness of mind can't be disturbed by the lapping waves of the storm.the lamp is already enlightened in this respect, its yellow light perhaps matches that which is within us. Maybe that's why it calls to us to just be. To just remain as still and harmonious as the beam of light, so our own light isn't extinguished by the vortex of change. And I will sit under the lamppost one night, once I am as calm and wise as he is, so that my own path may get illuminated by the ochre of the lamp.
