Too much, never enough
How the bed is a lonely, comfortable, abhorrent space
By Qiraat Attar
When I was a kid, I thought being great would be easy. You study hard and be smart, be kind, figure out what you enjoy and go to college for that, then graduate and the world is yours. Each day is a new chance to do better than yesterday. You wake up, you get moving, and every night you sleep with the knowledge that you are striving to achieve your best life.
What a load of crap.
Washing is hard. Yeah, I said it. Who the fuck wakes up and jumps immediately into the bathroom to get squeaky-clean? Nerds and losers, that’s who. Far cooler to just stay an hour in bed and scroll Instagram. These endless stories by dumbfuck celebs making reels with pithy filters aren’t just going to watch themselves now, are they? Maybe even better if you skip breakfast altogether. Not like there’s anything to eat anyway. One look inside the fridge and you might just lose your appetite entirely, that’s how messed up it is. Your old carton of milk and crate of fruits belongs in the Smithsonian. Get to work, check your emails. Ah, about fifteen people asking you to do the things you should have done yesterday but couldn’t bring yourself to do, because you were on Reddit reading about a woman who realized she was unhappy in her marriage because she preferred her dog. Riveting content. Then there’s always Facebook. Why try to make something of yourself when you can watch girls you shared two classes with in college announce their engagements? It’s a carousel of distractions, and you’re flaunting the day pass.
Lunch is whatever you had leftover from yesterday that’s making you fat and hate yourself. Joy is non-existent. You avoid ice cream for ten days because you’re really trying to feel better but one post from your ex and its pizza for dinner again. Your stomach takes the brunt because your heart is broken. Your whole body has to deal with what you’re going through. Your blood pumps slowly through the mid-season finale of your life. You have a feeling this show’s about to get canned.
Nobody told you adulthood would be so fucking lonely.
There are passions, of course. But every time you turn to it, it gets harder. The phone is right there, the television is blinking on, Alexa asks where you’d like to get dinner. Comfort is the mortal enemy of creation. Put four pillows on your bed and all you’re going to do is sleep, not fuck. Put two screens in your room and all you can do is consume, not create. If you want the light, you need to burn something. Ropes decorated with sequins are still ropes, cages made of gold are still cages. Masturbation is not sex and you’re not Jordan Belfort. Or Neil Gaiman. You’re nothing but you, and if you hate yourself then that’s your first clue.
Dinner is better because today you called the shots and decided it’s going to be lettuce and steamed chicken. Ted Talks are not Ted Do’s my friend. Watch it all you want, but Tim Urban ain’t going to come clean your room, take that course or call that old friend.
Your demons are not scary. They’re not monsters. They’re irritating because you’re just more comfortable avoiding them like you avoid everything else because they demand the truth when you have nothing but excuses to give them.
Your bed is a space of sleep and exhaustion. You think you’re giving yourself rest but YouTube spirals are more exhausting than if you held your arms out and just spun around like a ceiling fan. You’re reading this thing and you kind of want to hunt me down and throw salt in my tea. You’re welcome to. I know this because I want to too. I am a bloody good liar and this is Schrodinger’s article, all true and yet all false at the same time. But the test comes ten years later. If I have become something, then maybe this piece could be filed under fiction.
Qiraat Attar. Late bloomer, over thinker, chronic toe-wiggler, with a TV-binge addiction and a heart that won’t quit what it wants. Writes dramatically, occasionally. Currently lives in Bangalore, India.
Beyond The Silver Screen is her Hindi Film Appreciation page
