The Lamp

Something moves in this house every day
the lamp, a few centimeters to the left,
the vases, appear and disappear
the salt and pepper shuffled
the book shelf, a little off centre
and I spend my time putting them back
in their right place
which I decided in the first place
out of boredom or compulsion,
or because how will you follow rules
without rules?

My peripheral vision is strained
Ears have had enough of my groans
who's this ghost playing this joke on me?
Who do I ask, of occurrences so trivial
and yet so wondersome (perhaps only to me)
Why is it necessary, I wonder,
to always have things the way I prefer
to always have them the way I feel comfortable
Is this a sign to irk me,
to make me revolt,
or resign to this nuisance?

Have I been living in a box for so long,
that everything in my life should imitate it?
Why shouldn't the lamp choose a darker corner today?
Why can't the vases just take a bath once in a while?
Why wouldn't the book shelf want to be closer to the window?

One day, not too far from now,
I will pick up the courage to budge myself,
a few centimeters to the left,
to see
if the world looks different from that angle,
and to hear
all rules suspend.