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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Inspirational / Uplifting
- Published: 08/17/2024
Just a Streetlight
Born 1959, M, from Klerksdorp, South AfricaJust a Streetlight
What am I?
A streetlight. That is what they call me, those who pass by the road or stand in my light for a few fleeting seconds. I am a long iron rod, with a light on the top, standing alone on the roadside. I have never seen myself. Just distorted reflections in the puddles of water that form when it rains.
I see myself and I know that I look like the streetlight who stood on the other side of the road, before they came and took him away, because he was bent and rusted. They moved the bench beside him and kept her beside me. I know she has a story of her own, just like I do and just like the streetlight across me did.
I am just a streetlight.
No one pays any attention to me, and I do not pay any attention to them. But I do watch them, as there is not really much, I can do other than that. I watch the people who pass by the road. I watch the ones who sit on the bench, and I watch them with some interest for they are interesting and have interesting stories.
There comes an artist.
He sits on the bench at twilight, and he paints in my light. His art is always dark, with hues of blue and black. He paints beautifully and he paints all that he sees around him. But sometimes he paints things that I have never seen, and I watch enthralled as he fills his canvas with colour.
Through his art, I have traveled to places. I have seen green meadows at night where the crickets chirp. I have seen a black castle at whose window stood a witch. I have seen the wolves howling at the moon at night. I have seen the world through his dark eyes, and I have loved every moment of it.
But the last time he came he had no canvas, and he had no paints. His face which usually shone with hope, was dejected and sad. He sat down on the bench, and he held his head in his hands. He broke into huge gasping sobs. I watched as he cried, and to me, it looked as if the colours flooded out of his tears along with his tears. I wanted to bend to his side to show solidarity. To shed some light on him in that dark night. But I feared that if I bent, they would take me away too just like the streetlight who stood across me.
So, I did nothing but watch, from dusk to dawn. I just watched as he finally stood up with angry eyes and broke the brush, he carried in his pocket in two and left them there on the road. The street sweeper came and swept the pieces away and threw them into the bin. The bin was emptied into the garbage truck which then moved away, and I continued watching it till it turned around the corner and I could see it no more. I have not seen the artist since.
There comes a singer
Sometimes he comes during the day and attracts a crowd and sometimes he sits alone at night and sings to himself. He has a guitar that he plays while he sings. His voice is clear and pure, he manipulates the strings of his guitar to conjure heavenly music. All those who pass by, stop and listen and are transported elsewhere through a stream of memories that comes alive when he sings his song and strums his guitar, and I listen too.
I think of the streetlight who stood across me, and the many others who stood beside him and me, and how they were all taken away because they were bent and rusted. I think of the bench beside me and how many times she must have been moved, from under one streetlight to another, until finally beside me.
I look at her and I wonder if she is listening to the song as well and if she too is thinking of all the streetlights she stood underneath. Everyone loves the singer, and I do too, for he reminds me of things that I never think of, and he makes me feel things I never do and never thought I could for I am just a streetlight. But some people badmouth the singer and call him names and call him a fraud. They call him poor because of his tattered clothes and unkempt hair and they do not see the richness in his music. He hears their taunts every day but never lets the hurt show. At night when he sits alone, he plays soft music and sings a sad song, his words full of hurt and misery.
He makes me want to cry, but I do not, because then I will rust, and they will take me away too just like they took away the streetlight who stood across me. I never cry. I never would. So, I do nothing as his painfully sad music fills the silent night.
There comes a boy and a girl, together holding hands.
They come at night when the moon shines and it is as dark as it can be, and the tiny stars glimmer in the sky. They sit on the bench and talk about things I do not know of. They talk and they smile and sometimes they do not talk but just look into each other’s eyes. When it is well after midnight, the boy gets up and offers his hand to the girl.
She smiles and she takes it as he leads her to the road in front of me where my light falls. They dance together to a tune known only to them with my light falling on their pleased faces and their eyes shining with love for each other. When the sun comes up behind them, they stop their dance and leave together and return the next week at the same time and do the same thing. But today when they sat on the bench there was not a smile on their faces, but there were tears in their eyes. They spoke in low voices of the boy’s cancer and that he was going to die and there was nothing they could do about it.
When the girl broke down crying, the boy held her in his arms and let her cry into his chest. He would never leave, he would be there for her forever, through life and through death, never to part. Then he stood and offered her his hand. She smiled somehow through her tears and took it and led her to my light which fell on only a part of the road. As they danced together, I thought of the dejected artist and the sad singer and how I failed them although there was nothing, I could do to help them for I am just a streetlight.
But I regretted not shedding light on the artist, I regretted not shedding a few tears for the singer’s sake. Throughout my life, I have just watched and though I said I do not pay attention, I do care. I care a lot. But I have just watched and done nothing because I was too scared. I am just a streetlight. I cannot change anything.
But as I watched the boy and the girl dance together and I thought of the artist and the singer, I realized that none of them could change anything. The artist was miserable and could do nothing, the singer was criticized but could do nothing, and the boy was dying, and the girl could do nothing.
But that did not stop them from doing what they wanted. It did not stop the artist from breaking his brush, the singer from singing his song, and the girl from crying for the boy.
They express themselves in ways that they wish to, and it makes life more beautiful and meaningful for them.
I am just a streetlight. But I have thoughts and feelings and want to live too. Even if life is short because I will become bent and rusted, and they will take me away just like all the streetlights who had lived.
So, when I saw the boy and the girl dancing in the pathetically small spot on the road, I willed myself to become brighter and bend over the path. For them, I could light up the world and I could light up the small road.
As they danced with somewhat astonishment at the sudden increase of the lit area, I looked down at my bent form. The pole was fully bent, and I could not straighten it. But I was content with what I had done. For once I was not regretful. I gave them light till it was dawn and they left, still holding hands and not noticing my bent pole.
Throughout the day no one notices for I am just a streetlight, and no one pays any attention to me. When the girl returned alone the next week and cried alone on the bench, I cried with her. When it was dawn, she got up and left not noticing the rust that now covered me, and throughout the day, no one noticed because they all have busy lives, and they do not care for me. But when the city inspectors came, they noticed the bent pole and the rust.
They looked at me and tittered and tapped their pens on their clipboards. They did not like me because I was bent and rusted. So, the next day they came, and they took me away just like they took away the streetlight who stood across me and I was still happy and felt that he must have been too.
For I am just a streetlight, but I have lived too……
For a while, a long While……
MARIUS ROBBERTZE
AKA ©IMPISI
Just a Streetlight(Marius Robbertze)
Just a Streetlight
What am I?
A streetlight. That is what they call me, those who pass by the road or stand in my light for a few fleeting seconds. I am a long iron rod, with a light on the top, standing alone on the roadside. I have never seen myself. Just distorted reflections in the puddles of water that form when it rains.
I see myself and I know that I look like the streetlight who stood on the other side of the road, before they came and took him away, because he was bent and rusted. They moved the bench beside him and kept her beside me. I know she has a story of her own, just like I do and just like the streetlight across me did.
I am just a streetlight.
No one pays any attention to me, and I do not pay any attention to them. But I do watch them, as there is not really much, I can do other than that. I watch the people who pass by the road. I watch the ones who sit on the bench, and I watch them with some interest for they are interesting and have interesting stories.
There comes an artist.
He sits on the bench at twilight, and he paints in my light. His art is always dark, with hues of blue and black. He paints beautifully and he paints all that he sees around him. But sometimes he paints things that I have never seen, and I watch enthralled as he fills his canvas with colour.
Through his art, I have traveled to places. I have seen green meadows at night where the crickets chirp. I have seen a black castle at whose window stood a witch. I have seen the wolves howling at the moon at night. I have seen the world through his dark eyes, and I have loved every moment of it.
But the last time he came he had no canvas, and he had no paints. His face which usually shone with hope, was dejected and sad. He sat down on the bench, and he held his head in his hands. He broke into huge gasping sobs. I watched as he cried, and to me, it looked as if the colours flooded out of his tears along with his tears. I wanted to bend to his side to show solidarity. To shed some light on him in that dark night. But I feared that if I bent, they would take me away too just like the streetlight who stood across me.
So, I did nothing but watch, from dusk to dawn. I just watched as he finally stood up with angry eyes and broke the brush, he carried in his pocket in two and left them there on the road. The street sweeper came and swept the pieces away and threw them into the bin. The bin was emptied into the garbage truck which then moved away, and I continued watching it till it turned around the corner and I could see it no more. I have not seen the artist since.
There comes a singer
Sometimes he comes during the day and attracts a crowd and sometimes he sits alone at night and sings to himself. He has a guitar that he plays while he sings. His voice is clear and pure, he manipulates the strings of his guitar to conjure heavenly music. All those who pass by, stop and listen and are transported elsewhere through a stream of memories that comes alive when he sings his song and strums his guitar, and I listen too.
I think of the streetlight who stood across me, and the many others who stood beside him and me, and how they were all taken away because they were bent and rusted. I think of the bench beside me and how many times she must have been moved, from under one streetlight to another, until finally beside me.
I look at her and I wonder if she is listening to the song as well and if she too is thinking of all the streetlights she stood underneath. Everyone loves the singer, and I do too, for he reminds me of things that I never think of, and he makes me feel things I never do and never thought I could for I am just a streetlight. But some people badmouth the singer and call him names and call him a fraud. They call him poor because of his tattered clothes and unkempt hair and they do not see the richness in his music. He hears their taunts every day but never lets the hurt show. At night when he sits alone, he plays soft music and sings a sad song, his words full of hurt and misery.
He makes me want to cry, but I do not, because then I will rust, and they will take me away too just like they took away the streetlight who stood across me. I never cry. I never would. So, I do nothing as his painfully sad music fills the silent night.
There comes a boy and a girl, together holding hands.
They come at night when the moon shines and it is as dark as it can be, and the tiny stars glimmer in the sky. They sit on the bench and talk about things I do not know of. They talk and they smile and sometimes they do not talk but just look into each other’s eyes. When it is well after midnight, the boy gets up and offers his hand to the girl.
She smiles and she takes it as he leads her to the road in front of me where my light falls. They dance together to a tune known only to them with my light falling on their pleased faces and their eyes shining with love for each other. When the sun comes up behind them, they stop their dance and leave together and return the next week at the same time and do the same thing. But today when they sat on the bench there was not a smile on their faces, but there were tears in their eyes. They spoke in low voices of the boy’s cancer and that he was going to die and there was nothing they could do about it.
When the girl broke down crying, the boy held her in his arms and let her cry into his chest. He would never leave, he would be there for her forever, through life and through death, never to part. Then he stood and offered her his hand. She smiled somehow through her tears and took it and led her to my light which fell on only a part of the road. As they danced together, I thought of the dejected artist and the sad singer and how I failed them although there was nothing, I could do to help them for I am just a streetlight.
But I regretted not shedding light on the artist, I regretted not shedding a few tears for the singer’s sake. Throughout my life, I have just watched and though I said I do not pay attention, I do care. I care a lot. But I have just watched and done nothing because I was too scared. I am just a streetlight. I cannot change anything.
But as I watched the boy and the girl dance together and I thought of the artist and the singer, I realized that none of them could change anything. The artist was miserable and could do nothing, the singer was criticized but could do nothing, and the boy was dying, and the girl could do nothing.
But that did not stop them from doing what they wanted. It did not stop the artist from breaking his brush, the singer from singing his song, and the girl from crying for the boy.
They express themselves in ways that they wish to, and it makes life more beautiful and meaningful for them.
I am just a streetlight. But I have thoughts and feelings and want to live too. Even if life is short because I will become bent and rusted, and they will take me away just like all the streetlights who had lived.
So, when I saw the boy and the girl dancing in the pathetically small spot on the road, I willed myself to become brighter and bend over the path. For them, I could light up the world and I could light up the small road.
As they danced with somewhat astonishment at the sudden increase of the lit area, I looked down at my bent form. The pole was fully bent, and I could not straighten it. But I was content with what I had done. For once I was not regretful. I gave them light till it was dawn and they left, still holding hands and not noticing my bent pole.
Throughout the day no one notices for I am just a streetlight, and no one pays any attention to me. When the girl returned alone the next week and cried alone on the bench, I cried with her. When it was dawn, she got up and left not noticing the rust that now covered me, and throughout the day, no one noticed because they all have busy lives, and they do not care for me. But when the city inspectors came, they noticed the bent pole and the rust.
They looked at me and tittered and tapped their pens on their clipboards. They did not like me because I was bent and rusted. So, the next day they came, and they took me away just like they took away the streetlight who stood across me and I was still happy and felt that he must have been too.
For I am just a streetlight, but I have lived too……
For a while, a long While……
MARIUS ROBBERTZE
AKA ©IMPISI
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