Ever since she left, I stayed to my side of the bed. The
right side was her side and I couldn’t bring myself to spread out. So I slept
where I was. That bit of bed started to take the shape of my body. One morning the
depression in my bed stopped me getting up. My depression had grown deeper and
I could not escape from it. My depression had grown since she left me, when we
shared a whole bed and our whole lives. When we were in love. Immersed in my
own depression I lay. I slept. I would wake, stare at the ceiling and I
would sleep some more as my depression grew around me, trapping me further.
In
the days when I had been busy and in love there would have been nothing that
would please me more than days in bed, to rest, especially with her. A bedsore
sounded like a badge of the well rested, but no longer. Now I longed for the
black and blue bags to return under my eyes, a sign of a full life. Not one
lived in bed in your own depression. Live, love, laugh and rotate your
mattress.
No comments:
Post a Comment