My neighbors' carport light is a dying star and I'm sleeping in it

Jul. 8—It was 2:34 a.m., and my neighbor's carport light was a dying star.

White light exploded through the bedroom window inches from head, bleeding through blind slats to sear my eyeballs, despite a valiant but fruitless effort from my eyelids.

"I wish they'd cut that thing off," I whispered into the depths of my pillow as I withdrew into its synthetic fiber folds. With my face crushed against the cotton pillowcase, I'd finally found a place where the carport light — burning like a supernova — couldn't reach.

Turns out, air couldn't either. It wasn't long before my aching lungs convinced me to turn away from my pillow. The world lit up again, as bright as a truck stop.

"I don't think it's as bright in here as you think it is," Mandy told me at some point. Was it 3 a.m.? Maybe 4? I'd reached that point in the ritual of restless sleep in which time no longer meant much. It stretched and contorted, shrank to molecules in some moments, and expanded to oceans in others.

But she didn't know. This artificial sun didn't burn directly in her face. The windows on her side of the bed were aglow with the soft yellow light of a single streetlamp. It was nothing like this.

I rolled over to face the opposite direction, toward Mandy and away from the glow of LED insomnia. Although seeping light still filled our small bedroom, at least it was no longer a direct assault on my attempts to sleep. What darkness there was grew as I drifted away ...

... only to be awakened moments (Had it been hours? Mintues? Seconds?) later by a light but firm shaking of my shoulder.

"Adam," Mandy whispered. There was frustration in her tone. "You're snoring."

"Oh ..." I groaned. Something like that. "Sorry."

I flipped back to my regular position and sighed as fluorescent luminance washed over me again. I might as well have been attempting to snooze inside the aisles at Walmart.

"I don't know why they've started leaving that light on," I told my pillow, the covers, the G.E. window unit spitting cool air directly into my face. "They always cut those lights off at night."

Maybe something has changed for them, I thought. A fear, perhaps, of what creeps around their house at night. Light-adverse cryptids or would-be thieves seeking any bit of darkness they can find to do their heinous pilfering. Who knows? Doesn't matter. They're within their rights to run their carport light, same as I do most nights. It's not their fault my bedroom window stares out at the thing, like an open eye watching their fleet of parked vehicles day in and day out.

I'd have to deal.

I kicked myself out of the covers and sneaked through my 7-year-old daughter's bedroom, which adjoins ours. Although a tape measure would undoubtedly show that her bedroom window isn't far from my mine, the carport light struggled to reach it. Only a faint glow seeped through her blinds, fading into blackness just after crossing through the glass.

Arlie snored lightly, tucked comfortably among her stuffed toys and blankets and blessed darkness. I envied her.

Inside the cabinet of our front bathroom, I grabbed the thickest, blackest towel I could find and returned to the bedroom. With a little finagling, I draped enough of the thing over the blinds to push back against most of the light. The room grew darker. Not pitch. Nowhere near. But not "inside of a collapsing star" either.

I crawled back into bed, pulling as much of the covers over my head as I could without feeling suffocated, and closed my eyes.

They sprang open moments (Seconds? Milliseconds? Femtoseconds?) later as light pushed against them. The glow was warm. Natural.

Morning had arrived, and with it the radiance of a star nowhere near death. It burned overhead, a ball of fire finally capable of extinguishing the accursed carport light. For all the good it did.

ADAM ARMOUR is the news editor for the Daily Journal and former general manager of The Itawamba County Times. You may reach him via his Twitter handle, @admarmr.