Romantic. Inhibited, possibly. Even impaired. I remember, still. First it was constant elation. Then replaced with constant loss. The intervals would get longer. At first every other day. Then once a week. Once a month. Two months. Four months. Six months. Pleasure comes and goes. But that elation. Magnitude. And what had replaced it, the elation became trivial. Or perhaps the magnitude - broken up in a timely manner. Accumulated. Then discarded.
They are just little bulbs. Not sunshine. Just bulbs. Manufactured. Not the real thing. They can only capture the imitation of light. Not the light itself. Some dimmer. Some brighter. But never encompassing. How they try to burn brighter, or longer. Some flicker as they die, some just give out without any warning, some just explode. But they only give as much as they are made to. Then they burn out. Then thrown out. An end. An end. An end. They have no effect on my skin. But sun. It goes deep. Can penetrate the skin. Create color. Create malignant cells to multiply. True pain. Sun lives. Bulbs die. An end? And ends. They do. And when they do, humanity will stop. Have we absorbed sunlight? Sometimes if you stay in a dark room for too long, the first glimmer that you see, you’ll become drawn. Intrigued. Then a brighter one comes. Our attention moves away until we are surrounded by counterfeit illuminations or the memories of them. Forgetting the sun. The sun. Those who forget have been and will be forgotten.