Singularity

Every night my bed grows wide. Sometimes I’m happy about it, sometimes I feel obliged to map out the loneliness of its geography.

There are nights when it becomes a vast continent of yearning. During such nights, I travel the length of its darkness, discovering along the way imprints of familiar warmth. Its emptiness contains a certain absence, and its terrains echo the curves of the body. There were times when its vastness was governed by borders, the bedsheet partitioned into acres of hatred. My bed was a site of rebellion, a conflict that either ended in cold silence or tears. I could still feel the anger; sometimes the pillows turn their back to say no.

At times it becomes an expanding universe of passion. It bursts with stars, sending electric impulses across the cosmos; the void is filled with what substance I cannot tell. Here, matter and anti-matter meet, implosions and explosions occur at the same time. You thrust and even time lose its momentum: lust is the secret of youth. This universe grows or contracts continuously – no one can absolutely be sure – and in its aftermath, you question God and hope that in every falling star wishes do come true.

There are also nights when my bed becomes an ocean of contentment. This sea placates the tired and the restless; it gives birth to poetry and endless nothingness. I am lulled to sleep by its eternal softness, and I envy the pillows that perpetually rest in its horizons – like whales in meditation – and the bedsheet that accompany its pilgrimage of silence. I’d like to get drowned in its warm waters, be toyed by its playful sunlight, and in my solitude wake up with a smile.