That is how we are made to notice the significance of our every strand that so easily can become unravelled but shows how thick and tightly we are woven, braided, knotted and inextricably tied to others.
Our bed is how we like it, it should be-at least our side anyway, modest maybe, it is our humble hibernation space, a comfort zone, annuity fund.
We spend a fortune on thoughts tossed into the well of dreams while on the ledge of our beds between reality and fantasy, or nightmare. We frivolously spend our sleeping habits like worthless pennies that add up over time.
We properly adjust and situate and simulate our habitats.
A pretty bed, a California King bed, a four poster canopy bed may look inviting, but that doesn't guarantee comfort, losing sheep among the folds of the blinding mind.
It's cumbersome to be limited by the locale, character descriptions, steep and slanted arch-types with mis-matching labels, formalized by titles and rules.
Starting with an idea to edit one's reality, conclude with a change of your circumstance. You already have the tools you need.
One should heed Michelangelo and let the stone be freed from its misshapen form, it's mask of labels, loud stereotypes blur the fine lines and wrinkles.
You as the sculptor must start by manipulating, manually, your minds eye, adjusting your vision to take aim, instead of seeing life through rosy colored blame.
Image By Bain Collection (Library of Congress) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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