A short story.
It has been dark. As dark as it can be. And you know that darkness; you’re waiting for your eyes to get used to it but they don’t. You somehow know that there is a light. Somewhere, maybe hidden, there is a source of what you humans call light.
So he’s searching. Seizing around, touching the cold and wet matter. And then he finds it. It wasn’t that hard, he thinks. He stands up and walks to the others. His fingers wander around, touching their hair, their bodies, their hands. He tells them that he’s found it, he wants to light it. They mumble and whisper but they obey. They give him the wires. He screws it on. When it’s done, he waits. He counts, they count too. Eleven, twelve, thirteen. They say, give it time, in these conditions. Eighteen, nineteen, TWENTY.
They all start shouting over each other, some of them scream, some of them cry. They elbow each other trying to get to the light bulb as soon as they can, screwing it off and laying back in the lint and swamp again as long as they go unnoticed. As long as they don’t get THEIR attention.
There is the darkness. Wet and cold and mocking them.