Why does the dark gentle warmth of bed
give me the only true calm I’ve ever known? Is it that bed is day’s open and close? the revelatory jolt of awakening the blissful surrender to sleep Is it that bed resembles life’s open and close? the one true safe space of my mother’s womb the calm embrace of the grave Is bed simply a peek into the future into the blissful emptiness that awaits us all? Why do I go to bed when I’m sick of myself? when I wish to no longer be a person? Is it simply that bed asks nothing of me? Is it simply that bed is the only thing in life that ever gives freely without taking? What is the nature of the overwhelming pull I feel to that liminal space? Is it merely human’s innate desire for entropy that makes me fall headfirst into your covers’ folds and smash my face upon your downy pillows and dig my feet into your springy surface and lay there completely unmoving unthinking unquestioning until tomorrow’s bittersweet dawn? Is bed’s appeal merely the swift entropy of falling or is it what comes after-- the nothing? Is it that bed would be there for me all day? if I asked it to if I needed it if I felt I had no choice Or is it simply that I am forced to live this life awake cold clothed and upright that bed always seems sweeter than wherever I am? Is it that bed is the only thing that forgives me for being human and lets me pretend I am otherwise? Whenever I’d rather not exist my bed is there to grant my wish.
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