From my bed, I can see my carpet, but not the floorboards. I can remember cleaning the floorboards with a paperclip, but something sticking and a splinter sticking into my thumb, looking like a brown smudge underneath the skin, like a long bruise. When I went to the doctors - my mother insisted - I had already squeezed the thumb long and hard in the waiting room, which caused a mound of puss and shards of wood to splurt out with all the minor shooting pain thereby connected.
Real life is outside the window, all the reality schtick. "Life suck, reality bites", there's a fortune cookie slogan they'd never offer, I would bet. Maybe not. Somewhere there's a poet who scrawled that on a cigerette packet many years ago, in a pub maybe now not standing. From here, I can recall so much but there's a magnetic pull to the real life I cannot escape. No strength in the upper body, you see. I can only run away on strong legs but not put up a fight. Comfort and strength and confidence flutter like drying leaves. Falling leaves, then, etched with....what? The word "eros" like a tattoo. I'd be pedantic - "ἔρως" - and for what gain?
From my bedroom window....a ledge, and it's not easy to balance. I can concede so much and enjoy all the bounty of the heart, but...There is always something else, some other entity on the other side of the see-saw, pushing down as hard and forceful as they can. And from my bed the space between my feet and the floor just gets further and deeper.