Beds

I was laying in my bed last night trying to sleep and was experiencing insomnia. Spent two hours at least staring into space, or down at my sheets which have winking smiley faces on them... Somewhat tickled by that because the most time I spend in my bed is when I am feeling depressed. It was funny. Subtle irony.

I never slept in my bed as a child. I slept on floors. I had a bed... Many boughts with paranoia, something or other left me frightened beyond belief. I slept on the floor where any child usually would think to sleep. Wasn't till I got much older that I learned about the comfort of a bed.

This is a mere reflection. Something I was thinking about when my mind wouldn't turn off and I began to write in bed. I don't feel sad about it, just reflective.

Beds remind me of hospitals, relatives, and kin. Or when I finally got too big to use it as a hiding space. Attached is a plethora of feelings. Dread, anger, fun.

Don't think I still have the same bed I had when I was a kid. Do have the same headboard, which is cut in the shape of an oriental temple. It's heavy, I've had to carry it many times.

It made me think of beds, houses, streets, neighbors, childhood friends. How every single day when the sun went down the sunset bled into the wooden window shades of the house I grew up in. The sun was blood red. Looked forward to that. Always in awe. Colored hues of the sky.

Reflection