On Beds and Memories

I want a bed like the one I have at home. I've said this before--my bed at the condo is too squishy. It's not very comfortable and it hurts my back.

Beds are receptacles for people's most private memories. All of sudden I thought of all the beds in love hotels and their thin white sheets and blankets sometimes yellow or gray from overuse.

Sometimes, when I'm in bed, I am reminded of things past, regardless of whether or not they happened in that same bed I'm lying in. Fond memories of relationships that ended up badly, bittersweet like coffee flavored candy. I recall nights of crying over something I lost, or something I was about to lose--a pet, a job, a person, a love. I've lost quite a lot over the years. Then again, this is something that happens to everyone, so I don't feel sorry for myself or anything like that. I don't regret anything either, although, there are days when I hear regret knocking on the door. Sometimes I let it in, and we sit across each other and tell stories. I always do the telling; regret mostly just listens and, from time to time, pierces me on the heart with a knife. I don't bleed. I don't die. I just hurt. Most of the time, I ignore its knocking and instead call out from behind the door for it to go away: "Stop coming here, motherfucker! I don't need you!"

Today I call to mind the cold, gray mornings I woke up to as a graduating student in UP. I lived in a dorm then, and the beds there were small and creaky and old. They looked like hospital beds and their mattresses were thin and dusty. But they were comfortable to sleep and study in. That last bed I had at Sampaguita had witnessed the most trying days of my student life, as well as the worst of my struggle with my weight and my self-esteem. Ah, I miss college.

When I go home for the weekends and I sit on my bed, a memory flashes. One I'd rather forget because it pains to remember. But when I look at it from another perspective, devoid of any wistfulness, I realize I probably shouldn't control it 'cause it actually helps me realize how the person I am with in the memory deserved to be let go of.

It's almost seven in the morning. I'm getting out of bed now.