I was racing through the lava pit. On my left was a cross-eyed, purple rabbit holding a balloon, and to the right, a shoe flapping his tongue. The gate standing before me would allow me to gain access to the creature that stole my carrots. A narwhal with a severed horn held the keys to the gate. I asked him in a hurried tone,” Please, let me through! That whale stole my carrots!” In a timid fashion, he handed me the keys and boomed” You may pass.” In through the gates I stepped, and-
Oh. What is this puddle I’m laying in? Is this- is this drool? Once again, I have woken up in a lake of my own spit. Well, isn’t this perfect? Then I realize that my arm has fallen asleep. My fingers feel fatter than normal, so I lift my arm to empty my poor hand of the excess blood that was pumping through my veins. My eyes remain open as I take one deep breath, and smile. I can feel a supple, and inviting comfort embrace my feet. The barely noticeable, vanilla scent warms my senses as I turn and curl up in a thick blanket and manage myself into the fetal position. This is my preferred place, the only space where I can dream my worries away. Inspiration for future paintings begins here. This is my bed. It may come to a surprise to you.
Most often write about far-away places, some may write about sights they visited in their childhood. But my bed is my get-away. Where do I go to do my homework? What the one place I resort to when I cannot take any more stress from the day? My cozy, twin bed is my oyster.
My bed is an antique. When I was seven-years old, my grandma presented me with an antique bed made from a darker wood. The headboard has a flower bouquet painted and glazed right where I lay my head at night. The bed is about one hundred years old, and I think when my grandma set up that bed for the first time, I felt some connection to it. Whenever I laid in it, I felt as if someone was watching over me. Most do not believe me when I say this, but I can see spirits and ghosts. That bed must have a spiritual connection, because when I lay in my bed, I immediately feel someone’s presence. I am not afraid though, because I know that whoever is there is just watching over me. My bed has a story that I wish I could find out.
This bed is where I dream. The dreams I have are drawn into a sketchbook. That sketchbook inspires my art pieces. I do believe that dreams have a lot to do with my artwork, and I can thank my bed for that. One of my most recent paintings has a young girl glancing in the faces of several, human figures that closely resemble the muscle-bodies found in anatomy books. The young girl looks innocent, but is awaiting her doom. This painting derived from a dream I had at the beginning of this year about a young child facing several people that did not have good news for her. I do not, however, know what the bad news was. But, my bed does influence my dreams. If my bed weren’t as comfortable as it was, I think that my dreams would be non-existent, seeing as I would be tossing an turning the whole night trying to get comfortable, rather than soundly sleeping and enjoy the moving picture in my head.
When I get home from a trying day at school, my bed is what I immediately flop down upon for either a quick nap, or even to just read a great book. If I have a great deal of homework, I sit back against my pillows and crack out the books. The peace that bed brings to me alleviates the stress from the day so that I can muse over the work in front of me with ease. At times, though, I find myself drifting off to sleep. I will wake up two hours later and notice that I had accomplished nothing from my homework assignments.
I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling, waiting for myself to become drowsy again. I can hear my clock ticking on my wall. I shuffle onto my left side to see what time my alarm clock reads. It is 3:46 a.m. With a lengthy sigh, I return to my back and stare at the Chinese lantern above my head. My comforter is lying loose on my body, and grazing the sides of my face. That same vanilla fragrance brushes my nose, and my eyes are beginning to get heavy. I hurry to adjust my pillow, and then curl up into my fetal position with the comforter wrapped tightly around my body. My head stirs around in my pillow until it has the utmost support for a good night’s sleep. Once I am satisfied, I begin to breathe in deep. With one, final yawn, I start to drift into a uninterrupted slumber. Let the dream I was having carry on.
Now where was I? Ah yes. In through the gates I stepped, and there before me, stood the whale. He was a great beast, colossal in stature and covered in water beads. “Mr. Whale. I want my carrots back!” I shout at the whale. With a booming shriek, he opened his whopping mouth like a Pez-Dispenser and the carrots began to pour out in great heaps. When the whale finished his episode, he turned to me, gave me an enormous smile, and continued on his way. He flopped off into the sunset, and several white Sea gulls flew behind him. I returned to the gates with my bundle of carrots. The narwhal locked the gate behind me and told me to be on my way. I obeyed and walked back the way I came, past the talking, but now sleeping shoe, and past the purple bunny with a balloon. The lava pit was now one big, black rock. I turned to say goodbye to the bunny and the shoe, but I tripped over something rather peculiar. It was a- beep, beep, beep, beep. I turn over to switch off my alarm clock.
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