I love a bed swamped in blankets. There is nothing better than being swaddled like a baby in the warmth and security of a dozen covers.
Which is, I think, a great way to avoid emotional entanglements.
Feeling a little hard on yourself today? Buy a warm blanket. Feel fat and lonely? Purchase a duvet cover. Wrap it around your sad, frail shoulders and murmur, “I love you, forever”. Because that is the closest you’ll ever get to emotional truth: loving yourself.
Even then, it’s a rocky road without marshmellows. Sometimes i wake up in the morning and fall down screaming from the beastly reflection: depressive, hideous, angst with bulging eyes frantically wheeling about in search of an answer- any answer!- within the cavernous recesses of my skull, which seems to hold the most abysmally gaping nothingness that swallows time whole.
At times, I enjoy sitting very, very still.
If I concentrate, I can feel the corpuscular vehicle of my body: the weight of my cheeks, sagging from my cheekbones, or the strange view I have of the end of my nose. The blink of an eye, however quick and faint with the flutter of lashes, is wrung with flesh, greased moist by sensitive oils and unrealized tears of last night’s dreams. Sometimes, I wake up and stare at my fingerprints at the tips of my fingers- bald, pink, ridged with millions of curious lines readjusting my fate, one minute gesture at a time.