I am 31 and I don’t remember how many beds I have slept in throughout my life. You know how people always look forward going back to their homes, so that they can get back to their rooms and sleep in their own beds, and wake up to familiarity. Well, I don’t know what they mean when they say that. I have slept in so many different beds, in so many different places, and woken up to so many different settings, that sometimes now, when I get up, I forget where I am. Sometimes I even forget who I am.
It is a novel feeling.
Don’t get me wrong. It is not like I don’t have a bed. I do have a bed and I do have a home. The bed is mine, in a manner of ownership, but I don’t really own it, because I hardly lie in it. It lies there, in my home, night after night, it just lies there, neatly made covered with an expensive sheet it just lies there, empty. Night after night.
The bed that I am sleeping in these days, it is not mine. I don’t own it, the pillows it has are not mine, the sheets are. I do not look forward to getting into it at the end of my grueling days. You know it sucks, having that feeling taken away from you, that feeling of looking forward to crawling under the sheets into your own bed. I do not know that feeling and I do not look forward to getting into the bed that I sleep in these days. But then this is the only bed that I have, and for the days to come, until I get into another, this bed, I suppose, is mine.