Wednesday, 16 March 2016


 I like my bed when it's unmade. When it's stripped of it's layers and trappings to reveal the basic, off-white glory of it's nakedness. Duvet and pillow and mattress become a mass of cushion that I can burrow into, right in the middle, tucking my knees under my chin. I went three days recently without making my bed to keep my wonder of a bedtime routine. Eventually, I could practically hear my mum's nagging, so reluctantly pulled my covers off of the drying rack to clothe it again.

When I feel like a kettle primed to boil (which has happened a lot recently) I like to sit. Mainly, on the floor. Back pressed up against something sturdy, usually a wall or a cabinet, crossed legs like I'm back in Circle Time in primary school. Except here, it's just me, either looking up at someone or alone, controlling my breathing. Sometimes I do it to hide from something, or somebody, like the act of removing myself from where I am expected to be makes me completely invisible. It doesn't though. I am aware of people looking at me, or aware of how long I have been away and always have to get up to carry on.

One of my favourite things is when the sun streams through windows and glows a patch of light on the carpet. I like to lie in it for hours, edging slowly over as it moves with the day. When I was younger I'd do this on the top of the stairs, the biggest step framed by massive stain glass windows. I'd rest my feet on the one above and lie back, hair dangling off the edge, the blood rushing to my face making my forehead pop and crackle. Living in a flat means I live stairless, so I recreate this by hanging my head off the side of the bed, careful to not fall.

Growing up as one of four, which in turn was half of a pack of eight, means that my childhood was high volume at a high frequency. If it got to much, though, I'd take myself away from the roars to a corner, just for a few minutes, to pull back parts that had been shouted over and recollect. Open plan offices often reach a similar pitch as a swarm of pre-teens does, and when my headphones don't work over the ping on my inbox I do the same thing. Find corners - one by the printer, one by the bookshelves, one in the corridor - the places that the rumbles don't reach and I can finally hear myself.

I'm managing to adult by regressing, slightly. I think it's ok though. I think this is how you're meant to do it.


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