The Light that Huants Me

Its almost impossible to write when one feels that the outcome will either be an exercise in self-pity or completely dispensable sophistry, some pretentious intellectualism that falters more than amuses.
But then at other times, writing becomes a necessity, a need that overpowers demons and obsessive thoughts about inadequacy or futile attempts at perfectionism.
This is one of those moments where words find their way around all those endless recesses in my mind and pulsate through every neuron and somehow a scene is constructed out of nothing, with words being its building blocks.
The scene is me standing in an interesting space, reconfigured to become a mundane dwelling, yet its sheer parameters make it architecturally stand out. It spatially organized in such a way, it forces you and everyone in it to cluster and float around into its four corners, its centre propelling us to its edges, we let it affect us in ways we can not see or perceive and we infuse it with meaning in ways that were not foreseen, we gather here, disperse there, and like tidal waves that ebb and flow, one corner is full and another remains empty.
The context was was a birthday party, as usual.
In our little Manhattan, where this place is swiftly tucked in, hidden from all eyes, I stood in one corner, with smoke filling the air, swimming so placidly, heavily all around and light-bulb painted green shimmering over my head, filling the space around me with this outlandish hue, a surreal shade of light that keeps bringing to mind one scene after the other..
How many times did I stand under this light, to divulge a secret? to whisper a desire? to listen to a fellow troubled spirit? to observe those oppressed bodies, writhing to bizarre cacophony of sounds trying to exorcise their demons, to spy on potential lovers and feed off the fantasy of being in their place..
How many times did I stand under this light and pretended that I was not aware of everything single thing around me, starting from the very floor I am standing on, to the feel of the fabric of what I am wearing on my skin, to the taste of alcohol on my tongue, to the colours that I could barely make out in this dim light, to the sound of the words that I was hearing from those talking to me, and the sound of the many many words left unsaid and that echoed and echoed inside-  my head.
How many times did I stand under this light and witness rivalries,  flirts, the unabashed scheming and engineering, the show downs, the confrontations and the outright displays of malicious hate.
How many times did I stand under this light and encounter bodies worn down by Time, society, and the weight of their own minds, how they came to me and confessed their innermost fears and desires.
How many times did I stand under this light, thinking it was all a dream, that I dreamt and any second I am going to close my eyes, open them again and it will all be gone.
How many times did I stand under this light and had to face the triviality of my own existence and all that might plague a once youthful and naive weltschauung.
How many times did I stand under this light and had to bid loved ones good bye, receive the Kiss of Judas from those I thought friends and had to realize that what men say when they are drunk vanishes faster than alcohol.
How many times did I stand under this light where innumerable heartbreaks were staged, just the sheer atmospherics of it.
How many times did I stand under this light slowly coming to terms with how the 'party', gradually disintegrated and each one of the attendees had to split up, grudgingly, becoming an island all by herself.
How many times has this light haunted me yet one more time..