I pushed my hands into the Tempurpedic and while watching it reform considered the fleeting nature of our prints. It doesn’t take too long for us to conform to things, or for things to conform to us. We all have these things, these contortionist connections that we consider visceral until we are no longer considered.
My wallet always mumbles things about creature comforts. I ask about necessity but it too often hangs out with other wallets. Nauseous when full, it spews what I supposedly earned, what I supposedly am worth, back into some compound of shared debt. The only reason I bought that mattress in the first place was because my wallet peaked from chinos bunched against the foot of someone’s bed. I gathered that it thought I slept well, because a few days later I slept on a similar bed with a similar someone. It all felt more or less the same. Our body heat collected in our sunken imprints and crawled towards the edges of the bed. The guy who sold it to me said something about a comfortable transition, micro-this and anti-that, but I lost him in my dwellings about comfort. Our connection faltered when I pulled away from someone I wasn’t ready to father and fell asleep. Is that our only connection?
We bear children, and bear children, although we don’t have to. It can’t be that difficult for us to just leave. Families are forced. I can disappoint my family, but they will still fake pride and they will still hear my muted self. They will try to keep my sanity because they feel that my sanity is some relative offshoot of their own. Families branch from the same trunk but there are always holes for feral animals, there is always something underneath the bark. The other branches do not fall because of the severance of another, they may sink with what the fallen branch leaves but they do no fall. Family members act the parts that held no auditions. This earth supports families of thespian therapists but there’s nothing that they can say or do that will ever from me when I say or do nothing, or something, or everything in all, or some, or none of the wrong ways. Everyone is eventually left behind.
I don’t ask for any answers.
Like the mattress that swallows the prior night’s mistake, hugging her more than I did, keeping her longer than I would, the Bible Belt, that never kept my pants around my waist, embraces those ethereal comforts of a fourth dimension that also houses notions of love. There may be things in the atmosphere but I don’t consider smog heavenly. Do our souls venture beyond and figure out we were doing it all wrong? There can’t be any truth in the truth we consider, not with so much out passed the clouds that our road trips created.
We talk about love as if it’s not just about fucking. We talk about fucking as if it’s not just about fucking. We talk about god as if it’s about something more than comfort, something more than conformity.
I just want to keep my mind when and wherever I go, line my coffin with memory foam for the irony.