me, circa 2013, on the road for 7 months and v tiered
My bed is my favorite place in New York. I’m grateful for it every day when I am reminded of all the planes, hammocks, sunken beds, and mattresses cloaked in shredded mosquito nets I have had to sleep on.
I love lying down flat on my 10 inch mattress when I am reminded of how my body would have to contort itself on the awkwardly angled bus chairs, propping my head on a makeshift pillow- some combination of a sweatshirt, scarf, and tights- that muffle the abrasive vibrations of the rubber tires repetitively and endlessly hitting concrete.
I love closing my eyes to the perfect stillness of my room with no fear that someone sharing my space will be snoring, blasting reggae music in the hostel room next door, or attempting a quickie in those tiny single hostel beds that architecturally structured to inhibit sexual relations.
I love waking up without the fear of wondering “Where will I be sleeping tonight?” I love my consistency; I’m grateful for my comforts; I enjoy waking up relaxed, but there is a thrill that no longer greets me in the morning.
The thrill of being roused by a distinctive melodic beeping of an awoken city; the thrill of having new dreams; the thrill of waking up under an altered angle of the same sun. The thrill of different breakfast smells, morning news reports in unfamiliar languages, and watching someone else’s morning ritual. The thrill of wondering where will I be sleeping tonight?The thrill of being alive can sometimes only be experienced thousands of miles away from the bed that has been warped to your body after years of sleeping in it.
It is a thrill and fortune to be awake at all.