Being sick sucks. In bed most of the day leaves your body more sore than a PX90 workout. Without the full ability to have sustainable conversations due to my Harvey Pekar/Tom Waits sounding voice, writing and painting seem to be the only things getting me through these days… oh, and a bit of homemade roasted veggie soup and the occasional Words With Friends play (my user name is karmiclife if you are looking for a good game).
So lying here in bed, I decided to do a little writing exercise describing my bedroom in 300 words. Well it’s only 298 words, but who’s really counting. I almost posted this on my More than a Dwelling blog, but decided to post it here instead. I guess I feel that it is a more fictionalized piece. Well, now I’m just blabbering.
Faded, red suede curtains slightly parted reveal the warm glow of the morning sun. The cave slowly comes to life after its slumber in the darkness. The full-length mirrored closet doors begin to reflect the light, bouncing from picture frame to picture frame. Pale, white walls encourage light to spread, echoing the sentiment, “It’s time to get up!”
Disregarded books and clothes scattered on the floor are less like mines in a minefield during daylight hours, but more like added character to a usually tidy affair. Each object nestled in its place still sleepy from a night of sleep. A white bra snuggled up to a brown tank, curled up next to the striped slacks worn the previous day occupy the corner next to the bookcase.
Clothes hung in the closet peer out, urging the stragglers folded on the dresser to get up, come home. Stacks of hats and loose jewelry taking comfort in the shade of the lamp, cozy up to the piles of folded clothes declaring, “They are home.”
The clock on the nightstand silently stands in solidarity with the sun next to the indifferent stereo, who hadn’t slept much after being left on from the night before. Lights blinking exhaustively, the stereo never truly tires due to its unlimited source of energy, ready at anytime to create the mood. Right now he’s poised for a bit of The Beatles, Here Comes the Sun.
Center stage, the queen takes her rest. No one in the room knows sleep like the bed, happily sedentary all her life and this morning was no different. Piles of crimson blankets and pillows upon her belly keep in warmth allowing the crumpled sheets to sleep in a little bit longer. No need to stir them. Let them rest. No work today.