Our beds used to be finite. A limited range of activities took place there. We’d sleep, or try to, make love, eat, and maybe read a paperback. But we could only hide from the world for so long. The nagging puppet strings of our desire to learn and experience would pull taught. Eventually we had to rise. Then we found someone to cuddle with.
She filled our squinting eyes with wonder. Endless possibility could suddenly curl up in the comforters with us.
Our friends, in our bed.
A library, in our bed.
An office, even, one we could attend naked or hungover or asocial, confined in the cosy confines of where we rest our heads.
The alarm clock’s red face has turned green with envy. Her function just another replaced by our new mistress. But why even set it when there’s no place left to go. If I can be anywhere and learn everything whilst luxuriating in linen, reasons to emerge get sparse.
Secretly our beds always long for more of our attention. Those cold mornings when you were sure you could feel the cling of its embrace, tempting you to stay. Now they have our time, even if our affection must be shared.
Meanwhile we slowly wither / legs we’d stand upon grow thinner / When does seeking turn to sloth? / As we fear to turn them off. The only thing that could convince us to escape our quilted prison? / Percentage points tick down and light goes dark within our prisms.
But if our outlets are located / within reach of where we’re laying / electrons will continue filling / in the data we keep swilling / So there’s still a steady stream of infotainment overfed…
My phone and I are never, ever getting out of bed.