Edited: An object that means something to you.

There are twenty four hours in a day, and every day I spend about ten of them sleeping. Sleeping is something everyone, everywhere does everyday. Still, then there is the time when you are not at home for a few days. You finally return to the comfort of your sheets and get to nestle in your own, warm blankets for the first time in what seems like too long. There is no object more comforting than one big enough to crawl into, and no better place to dream than a tunnel of soft sheets.

It's a cold day by the buses, and all anyone wants is to be at home, tucked up in bed with a hot chocolate, and who could blame them?

My bed is not individual or unique in the way it looks, in fact I’m sure it was made on a mass-produced scale and there are thousands of others like it. Despite this, somehow, each bed still manages to be individual to a person in the way it feels. Although you may be sleeping in a bed with the same material, the same company’s bed stand etcetera, only one bed is yours; its only one bed that consoles me.

One day I will move out of the house I am living in and onto other places in my life. My bed is not a possession I know I can take with me. When the time comes I’m sure their will be other beds I grow to love, and other mattresses who comfort me at night. For the mean time however, there is no place I can be that makes me feel as soothed and secure as being between the wrinkled sheets of my bed.

Dashwood

The wasted carcass of Willoughby rots,

His vacant shell is gone, so I will not catch the stench.

What to do but feel and feel and feel?

I linger and brood on the life he promised me,

The life he now chucks at me, smack.

They twitch, recline and pace around me,

Offering vacant comforts through dark eyes.

Nothing but the ripping of pages, tear, claw

 “Oh, what a dashing bachelor, what a favourable catch”

Shattered, stamped on and rubbed into the carpet.

Song drags me through as a hymn;

The sound aches, then slows to melancholy.

Pouring out through symphonies, once our sweet,

Now bitter, red and shrivelling,

Like the heap of my youth that piles up from the floor.

Longing for goodbyes turn to longing for revenge,

A vivid delusion of a settling of scores

Wakes me. The satisfaction of a final declaration,

Of our sour love that acidifies my stomach.

Ordained to go unfulfilled.

An object that means something to you.

There are twenty four hours in a day, and every day I spend about ten of them sleeping. Sleeping is something everyone, everywhere does everyday, but then there is the time when you are not at home for a few days. You finally return to the comfort of your sheets and get to nestle in your own, warm blankets for the first time in what seems like too long. There is no object more comforting than one big enough to crawl into and no better place to dream than a tunnel of soft sheets. A cold day by the buses and all anyone wants is to be at home, tucked up in bed with a hot chocolate, and who could blame them? My bed is not individual or unique in the way it looks, in fact I’m sure it was made on a mass-produced scale and there are thousands of others like it. Despite this, somehow, each bed still manages to be individual to a person in the way it feels, and although you may be sleeping in a bed with the same material, the same company’s bed stand etcetera, only one bed is yours, and its only one bed that consoles me. One day I will move out of the house I am living in and onto other places in my life. My bed is not a possession I know I can take with me, and when the time comes I’m sure their will be other beds I grow to love, and other mattresses who comfort me at night. For the mean time however, there is no place I can be that makes me feel as soothed and secure as being between the wrinkled sheets of my bed.