Poetry Journal [6]

Life from Bed

Meah Enya Brooks

Apparently, ‘there’s something to be
said about paranoia.’ The only
thing to say is that I wouldn’t
recommend it; it makes you lonely
because, when you’re paranoid,
it’s less stressful to be on your own
(for obvious reasons). Bed is a good
alternative to everything; you can hone
in on who you are until the sky
transitions from early evening to early

morning, and you still haven’t quite
figured yourself out. But that’s okay.
That’s not the point. The point is
you stayed in bed, where the day
and the night coalesce, where time is
the pillow you lay your head on,
and you can abuse it until it’s as flat
as dry air, until it’s completely gone,
and all you’re left with is a memory
of all the memories you didn’t make

because you stayed in bed. You stayed
in bed. Where it is warm, toasty,
cosy, comfortable, secluded, safe,
solitary, where you feel free.
But that’s what makes it dangerous
and uncannily uncomfortable and so
isolating, where you feel trapped.
Because it’s so hard to say no
to a bed, especially when life outside
of it never seems to measure up,

never seems to surprise you, never
seems worth the waking. It’s merely
the time you spend standing in the rain
before your train arrives; clearly
that can’t be better than the ride itself.
But the problem is, the minute
you step on, you start looking out
the window, at the tempting, infinite
world passing you by, the un-bed,
the un-train, the real real life.

And even if there is no one or
nothing to miss, or miss out on when
you’re there, on the bed, on the train,
where it’s dangerously safe, then
it is only because you made it that way.
You made your bed, now lay
in it, and you do, hating it, loving it,
knowing of course that you cannot stay,
that when you inevitably get off, get out,
the unmoving journey continues
without you.

But this is just a reflection of paranoia.
There’s nothing to be said about paranoia.
There’s something to be said about bed, instead.