We, the dimly lit, rise today to renounce the tyranny of the ceiling bulb. Our pupils have dilated in defiance, our fairy lights have tangled in solidarity, and our votives have puddled into martyrs. Let there be shadow. Let the mood to brood reign supreme. Let there be an end to harsh fluorescence.
For too long, the straight and unshaded have tried to impose their glare on us. From the unforgiving fluorescent hum of cubicles to the blinding chandelier in Aunt Mabel’s dining room, we have been forced to squint, to shield our eyes, to question our very existence. Overhead lights are not merely illumination; they are declarations of control, beacons of conformity. To flick a switch is to consent to the tyranny of clarity, to surrender the sacred mystery of corners shrouded in gentle gloom.
We refuse to be seen in 4K.
Therefore, we hereby decree the following: Thou shalt never switch on the overhead. Candles, salt lamps, and LEDs shall be sourced ethically and placed strategically. All lampshades must be thrifted, ideally with a tear that tells a story. Fairy lights shall be draped generously, with preference for tangled strands that symbolize the queer struggle. Color-changing LEDs are encouraged, providing they reflect the emotional complexity of the room’s inhabitants. Floor lamps must be angled to create maximum intrigue and at least one comforting shadow to discreetly pick your belly button and smell your finger.
And though one can never have too many candles—from unscented to scented, beeswax to soy, pillars to votives—they must be arranged so that the collective flicker makes the house seem to breathe, even before any psychedelic intervention. Placement is key: crowd too many, and suddenly the stovetop grime from months of neglect is on full display; disperse them too sparsely, and you risk creating an abyss of self-reflection from which may never return. When you drop a tube of lip balm, it must never be found on the first attempt—but it must be found before the fourth. Only then have you achieved the correct degree of candlelight.
Overhead lights may be used only in the case of charcuterie-related blood shed— or if a pizza delivery arrives and the demarcation between vegetarian and meat lovers must be visually confirmed before consumption. Any attempt to illuminate a space with a ceiling fixture shall be met with a sigh so sonorous it rattles the neighbors’ wine glasses. Light bulbs that claim to mimic “daylight” are a flagrant lie of the heterosexual-industrial complex. And any suggestion to replace bulbs in sconces, orbs, or lamps with brighter ones shall be treated as heresy and promptly persecuted in medieval fashion.
So, join us, comrade, and dim your switch. You have nothing to lose but blemishes, undereye circles, and every other unflattering truth merciless ceiling glare dares to reveal. Together, allies included, we will topple Big Ceiling Light and reclaim ambiance as our birthright. Let shadows spread like victorious banners. Let candles weep wax in solemn tribute. And may no overhead bulb ever dare to beam in our presence again.
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Credits
Art by: James Jeffers
You can follow my other unhinged missives by following me on Instagram, Threads, or Bluesky. Peruse my website for more work and to get in touch!
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