I Blame You, You Blame Me

I want to go back to bed. I must be ill. There’s definitely cold sweat, definitely. Is it a fever? I just want to go back to bed. Slowly creep underneath the covers, noone has to notice, and just lie there in the warm and safe envelope that is my bed. I have a special bond with my bed. Even though the bed changes, sometimes night after night, it always seems to be the same bed. My bed is where I’m home, no matter where I actually am. Sometimes it fails me, my bed. It fails to protect me from that person in the hostel room whose snores are drilling into my skull. It fails to muffle the sounds of my friend and her boyfriend making out next to me.

Somehow, my bed has also become my enemy. It is like I’ve betrayed it. I have to resist its constant almost magnetic pull and I hate it for the strength this requires. Strength I need for other things. I also curse it for being so possessive. Why can’t it just be happy with having me in its arms during the dark of the night? I’d like to spend the day without it, I need some space. There’s nothing to it. The chairs I sit on, the streets I walk, the things I lean on, they’ve got nothing on you, dear. We’re just friends. Yet, its jealousy ruins my relationship with the chairs, the streets, the things. And I, annoyed and exhausted and resentful, deny you my company when it gets dark. At two or three in the morning we make up reluctantly, because we rely on each other, we need each other. And when the sun rises, the whole ordeal begins anew.

Why, why can’t we escape this truly vicious cycle? We are slowly ruining each other, day after day, as the anger and the contempt grow ever and evermore. Of course, I blame you, and you blame me, and there is a nice symmetry to this. But we can’t go on. Maybe we need a break. But we can’t break, can we? You follow me wherever I go, wherever I sleep. You are home. And I’m still happy when I’m with you. Our nightly reunions are such a relief and pleasure that sometimes I think, maybe it’s worth it, maybe all the drama is worth it, just for that moment of unity.

But it’s not, is it. My unhealthy relationship with my bed poisons my waking hours. It makes me hate myself and sleep through what could have been my life. It is my own version of meth. It fills me with regret and resentment and brings me sadness and frustration. I will never get away from it, it will be there, no matter where I sleep, on heavenly futons, dirty sheets and disappointing roll mats. But maybe we should just be friends.

B x

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