It's cold today. Not the nice type of cold either. No, not the type that makes you appreciate the warmth of a loved one, or the artificial heat of American households, or the security of feeling tucked into a large bed. Not the type that foreshadows the holiday season, or the type that meteorologists get excited about. Not the type that is so commonly viewed as a picturesque winter wonderland of swirling snow and children's laughter. No, today is cold, dry, and desolate. Today is one for working, for stressing, for snapping. Today is the type of cold that pierces the bone such that even the heart cannot radiate heat. No romance for today, either. The skies are gray, but not in a particularly emotional way, not in some ominous, foreboding way that hints at looming storms to come. But instead, they are bleak, opaque, hesitant. However, the wind is rather insistent today. It chides me for my immobility, gloating as it flies across my yard freely. I envy it so. The only sound is of its moaning, its groaning, and of the fleeing of the lifeless leaves. They stumble away from me, unwillingly, but soon forget about me as they soar into the air and glide over the house behind me. The wind laughs as it, too, departs. All is still. All is silent. I am alone. No one walks down my street today.

I am naked. I am thin. The cold pierces my metal skin and I feel a black paint chip near my neck peel off from the incessant wind. If only I could shiver. If only I could go inside. If only I could – No. I can't go down that line of thinking. What good does it do for me anyway, dreaming of the happy hypotheticals that only hinder my current state of mind. If only, if only... Such simple words to think. I wonder if I could say them aloud, would they have more meaning? Here I am asking that deceitful word “if” again. Though to be honest, if all I can do is think, should I really be scolding myself for hypothesizing? It does depress me, however, to realize that I am the only one who does think about me. I am the only one of my kind, as far as I know. What's worse is that I can't know. Every other that might be like me might be crying out for help, unable to make a sound, only feeling the slow withering decay of time and age and rust and dents. But just as I cannot seek them, they cannot seek me, and thus neither can know if the other even exists.

There is another, at least in appearance, near me. I cannot move, cannot speak, but I can see. I can see to the end of my block, where another Me might be. It is fancier than me. More elegant. More ornate. It has five spherical heads, as opposed to my single drooping one. Its heads glow in different neon colors, and has a bright red bow around its middle. Even if I could communicate to it, I do not know what I would say. I do not know if we would get along. But sadly, even if we could mingle, I do not think we would. It seems so much happier and not in the least bit lonely. Its house holds a family, with pets and children and a waterfall pond to watch. It lives on a corner, an intersection, and has a stop sign nearby, which naturally means it gets more attention from cars. It even has had the towering tree that previously blocked its view of the street taken down, making it the tallest and most beautiful object on the corner. I have a large tree in front of me, and a smaller one nearby. I am in the middle of the street, where cars begin to speed away. I have no water features, no playful children. The only pets that visit me only use me to relieve themselves before their owners pull them away without giving me a passing glance.


I wish I could turn my downcast head and see behind me, but I know there is nothing of interest. An elderly woman lived there, and before that, an elderly couple. They had me installed years and years ago, back when street lamps were more common than street lights. I had a job, I had a purpose, I had humans that depended on me. The couple would walk by me every day on their way to their jobs or to do various yard work or just to sit by my side and admire the view of the multitude of trees, through which there was the unpaved road. They understood me. They cared for me and took care of me, too. Not a day went by after my bulbs went out did the couple waste before replacing it. My head was held high. My beams shone bright. But the time for light has fallen, and along with it, my head. The government tore down our trees and paved a street, leaving just two trees to appear good-natured. In actuality, the remaining trees blocked my view of the cars and interesting sights the city street would soon hold. Towering orange street lights of wooden poles and black cables cast ugly tints and dim shadows throughout the street, and my bulbs soon were illuminated less and less frequently. The couple died off from some withering disease, and the house was given to the ignorant offspring, who hardly visited it. I'm not even sure if they technically own it at the moment. Perhaps it was sold to some profiteer of the real estate business, or maybe the bank foreclosed it. It makes little difference, as the house that was once a home is now as run down and purposeless as I am.

I do not mean to sound negative. Life, after all, is all about perspective. True, I have no freedom, no voice, and no ability to move, but I do have the ability to think. In a way, it makes me more free than any ability human muscles could give. I may be alone, but I have peace. I may be cold, but I know of warmth. I can recall sunfilled days of Summer winds, where the last remnants of green grass grow under my feet. I can dream of happy hypotheticals that allow me to escape my corporeal form and embrace my inner self, my heart, my brain, my soul. I am old, but I can remember my youth. I have no job, family, or purpose, but I had one, and made those moments count. As I have made no decisions, I have also no regrets. And there is still hope for me yet. The Winter will end, and Spring will come. The joggers will pass by, and the dogs and schoolchildren, and the grass will grow again. The sun will heat my metal spine until I radiate hotter than my lit bulb ever could. Things will get better, then worse, then better once more. With age comes wisdom and with wisdom comes acceptance. After all, why else would we live? Though I am not alive. But this also means I cannot ever die. There is an inescapable sense of security in that fact, even if I am broken or bent, I cannot ever entirely cease to exist. And if I am wrong, I can at least linger on, finally free, as a memory, forever a part of this world. And if and when I am uprooted from my home, I will forever hold it in my metaphorical heart. I may not be sentient, but I still have feelings. I may not be human, but I still have a soul. I may be trapped in a lamp post's body, but in my head I am free. And now, even the cold cannot upset me.