On Pillows

  The room is full and lonely. I sit up and admire the mementos of camaraderie. The times passed that brought me solace in company. I see the Statue of Liberty and the time I went to New York with friends from school. I see the debates trophies and all the acquaintances that provides. These are just a few of hundreds of small things I have kept over the years. With all these memories of other people, perhaps the loudest memory is just behind me. I turn to lay back down and peer at the fluff and cloth that I have become so dependent upon. It at first reminds me of years of pain. As a child I always isolated myself from people, and I suppose I still do, for any reason that struck my fancy. I cut off friends because I hated losing people. Rather ironic is it not? I cut off family because I saw myself through their eyes as nothing but a disappointment. I cut off the world entirely that lay outside the four walls of the room in which I was assigned. 

  I would stay in my room and play with Legos, usually Bionicles. Sometimes I would play video games. I say sometimes because I was often grounded. My pillow quite often saw the worst of me. I would cry into it, scream into it, beat it up, and sleep soundly it. The pillow became a sort of benchmark I suppose. It began to symbolize so many different things. It has supported my entire life so far. I love too hard and care too much and the only thing that has let me hold onto it indefinitely is that shitty, crumpled, blue pillow from Wal-Mart. I suppose you can infer a number of things about me from that. I'm a hopeless romantic and I guarantee that there are enough dried tears on my pillowcase to fill a small pond. 
  With all that darkness in mind it has long been a symbol of hope and security. There is a lot of achievement in returning home and lying down and feeling your feet breath a separate sigh of relief. The highlight of my day is lying down and letting the words flow through my head and listen to the thousands of poems and stories that fill my brain that could never all be transcribed. That pillow has heard more of my thoughts, opinions, and words than anyone in my life ever will. I know that I am at my happiest when I am burrowed in the solitude of cracked memory foam and broken zippers. My pillow is shitty. My pillow is blue. My pillow is from Wal-Mart. I love the hell out of my pillow.