He lies on his back on his new bed in his bedroom in his new house with the evening sun streaming in through the window above and is thinking about how comfortable he feels. This new mattress is memory foam. It is so soft and gently accepting of his body's contours that he could lie like this for hours and not feel any need or want to reposition or move. Five thousand dollars he had spent on this. He had debated the cost for a while when purchasing, but it was the salesperson's line of 'this is your permanent home, this will be your permanent bed, think of your future and all the comfortable sleeps you will be rewarded with each day...' or something along those lines that had clinched the sale.
His future.
Whatever. The five thousand dollar mattress was nothing when weighing up how much this new house build cost him. Or would cost him... He started to think about the mortgage repayments. The thirty year fixed term loan. His loathsome job and the now necessity of him being in it in order for him to be in this house with its outlook of the park, the wooden polished floors, granite kitchen tabletop, master ensuite, extra bedrooms, extended back deck, leather lounge chairs... It was supposed to be a great moment to get onto the property ladder and own a house but most of the joy escaped him or had never arrived. Sure, it was a nice house, he had -in part- designed it and was happy with how it was completed. But why, when reflecting on things, was he feeling uneasy about the whole process? Especially when lying on this five thousand dollar mattress, this perfect mattress perfectly supporting his every appendage. How could one feel unease or discomfort?
His body was at rest but his brain was busy, agitated, ruminating.
He started to think of all the places he had slept. For he knew if he did this, they would all point towards today and how it should be glorified, desired. He was sure, almost adamant, that some of his sleeps in prior years had been so bad that they would have ushered for the present if they had the power. Such sleeps would have dictated the path to where he was today - such were their discomfort. They would have begged for the rest he was experiencing now, to be dry, safe, bored, nothing left to do but reflect on an inferior and loathing past.
He remembers the days when he was a traveler. How he had laid his head down in gardens amidst cacti, on hay bails in nondescript fields. There were windblown beaches, barns, deckchair recliners in unlocked storage units. These were the days when every dollar had value and was counted and physical discomfort often had a monetary reward in savings. Then there were all the floors, mats and couches.Tents in the backyard. The people or the people of people that he had known that had opened up such spaces. Sometimes arrangements had been made in advance, sometimes they occurred via drunken destiny. He recounted a time when he had nearly slept on a bench in a park opposite a bus station in Bulgaria only to end up being invited to spend the night with an elderly man in his apartment who would drop him off at the bus station the next day - bless.
Then there were all the hostels and refuges he had stayed in, the places where sleep had evaded him when most desired and paid for. The revelry of noisy patrons returning from late nights partying, then the stirring of early risers up to catch the first mode of transport onwards, lights on (those bastards) and the crackling of plastic bags as they rummaged through their belongs (why hadn't they organised this the day before) for undiscoverable objects. But it wasn't just the noise that had objected to one's sleep in such places, but it was also the smells. The people who wouldn't wash, the humidity and musky odours of poorly ventilated spaces. Mosquitos. Heat filled rooms with broken fans. These were things he didn't miss.
But he felt a strange fondness to these times as he reflected on them. Whilst the quality of the sleep was abysmal, many of the nights or, maybe it was the general time of life, that was memorable. These were the days when his future hung somewhere in the air and everything was unknown. He had slept in curious places and environments across the earth, sometimes solitary, sometimes with random company. He would often not know where he would sleep tomorrow, next week, or next month or who he would cross paths with and often they spent their nights in the same predicament. He met some great people this way, they would bond, connect, speculate on life, dreams and ambitions. Everything was possible, futures were unwritten. Those days they had all the time and energy in the world but little in terms of financial means.
The evening light grew dimmer through the window as the sun descended. He had not moved an inch since laying down and felt very little need or desire to do so (damn this was a good mattress!). He thought about all the sleeps he would have in this bed and wondered what dreams would come. Would they be filled with reflections of the past or would they look continually to the future? Is this where he wanted to be? He did not know and he wondered: Was he comfortable with this? Once there was a big wide world, now -more or less- it had shrunk to the size of this house.
His future.
Whatever. The five thousand dollar mattress was nothing when weighing up how much this new house build cost him. Or would cost him... He started to think about the mortgage repayments. The thirty year fixed term loan. His loathsome job and the now necessity of him being in it in order for him to be in this house with its outlook of the park, the wooden polished floors, granite kitchen tabletop, master ensuite, extra bedrooms, extended back deck, leather lounge chairs... It was supposed to be a great moment to get onto the property ladder and own a house but most of the joy escaped him or had never arrived. Sure, it was a nice house, he had -in part- designed it and was happy with how it was completed. But why, when reflecting on things, was he feeling uneasy about the whole process? Especially when lying on this five thousand dollar mattress, this perfect mattress perfectly supporting his every appendage. How could one feel unease or discomfort?
His body was at rest but his brain was busy, agitated, ruminating.
He started to think of all the places he had slept. For he knew if he did this, they would all point towards today and how it should be glorified, desired. He was sure, almost adamant, that some of his sleeps in prior years had been so bad that they would have ushered for the present if they had the power. Such sleeps would have dictated the path to where he was today - such were their discomfort. They would have begged for the rest he was experiencing now, to be dry, safe, bored, nothing left to do but reflect on an inferior and loathing past.
He remembers the days when he was a traveler. How he had laid his head down in gardens amidst cacti, on hay bails in nondescript fields. There were windblown beaches, barns, deckchair recliners in unlocked storage units. These were the days when every dollar had value and was counted and physical discomfort often had a monetary reward in savings. Then there were all the floors, mats and couches.Tents in the backyard. The people or the people of people that he had known that had opened up such spaces. Sometimes arrangements had been made in advance, sometimes they occurred via drunken destiny. He recounted a time when he had nearly slept on a bench in a park opposite a bus station in Bulgaria only to end up being invited to spend the night with an elderly man in his apartment who would drop him off at the bus station the next day - bless.
Then there were all the hostels and refuges he had stayed in, the places where sleep had evaded him when most desired and paid for. The revelry of noisy patrons returning from late nights partying, then the stirring of early risers up to catch the first mode of transport onwards, lights on (those bastards) and the crackling of plastic bags as they rummaged through their belongs (why hadn't they organised this the day before) for undiscoverable objects. But it wasn't just the noise that had objected to one's sleep in such places, but it was also the smells. The people who wouldn't wash, the humidity and musky odours of poorly ventilated spaces. Mosquitos. Heat filled rooms with broken fans. These were things he didn't miss.
But he felt a strange fondness to these times as he reflected on them. Whilst the quality of the sleep was abysmal, many of the nights or, maybe it was the general time of life, that was memorable. These were the days when his future hung somewhere in the air and everything was unknown. He had slept in curious places and environments across the earth, sometimes solitary, sometimes with random company. He would often not know where he would sleep tomorrow, next week, or next month or who he would cross paths with and often they spent their nights in the same predicament. He met some great people this way, they would bond, connect, speculate on life, dreams and ambitions. Everything was possible, futures were unwritten. Those days they had all the time and energy in the world but little in terms of financial means.
The evening light grew dimmer through the window as the sun descended. He had not moved an inch since laying down and felt very little need or desire to do so (damn this was a good mattress!). He thought about all the sleeps he would have in this bed and wondered what dreams would come. Would they be filled with reflections of the past or would they look continually to the future? Is this where he wanted to be? He did not know and he wondered: Was he comfortable with this? Once there was a big wide world, now -more or less- it had shrunk to the size of this house.
