We changed our lights today.
There’s a chandelier in the room. It’s not a very intricately ornate chandelier; rather, a modest one made up of a couple of decorative black metal rods that curve gracefully enough, but fairly simplistically.
It holds five light bulbs, each pointed upwards on little saucers (although that may be too dainty a term) around the edges of a pentagon-shaped circumference. In the past few weeks since we had them last replaced, they’ve inexplicably stopped working, stopped shining, one by one.
You don’t notice it. It’s not something you notice unless you’re looking for it; just something in the back of your observant mind that you’re aware of on at least some subconscious level, but not forefront enough for you to truly register the change.
And one day we turned the lights on—the chandelier light switch, without the main lights—by itself by some happen of chance and nothing happened. So we changed them; no big deal.
We only changed four of them.
Four out of five is enough. Enough so that nobody will notice; enough that nobody can even tell the difference—not unless they’re looking for it. Enough to light up the nights, in any case. There’s not truly very much different, in a practical sense.
And neither aesthetic: the chandelier wasn’t very exquisite or glamorous to begin with—one light bulb that doesn’t glow cannot cripple any beauty.
The light bulb that doesn’t glow doesn’t really matter. We don’t change that one.