I have many old, faded memories of hiding under the bed whenever I was frightened or upset; Old memories stripped down to the bare essentials so they no longer tell a story but instead express a feeling; it felt safe under the bed. It is tight, claustrophobic and dark with the faint scent of dust and old socks kicked aside and long forgotten. No matter how small I was I could never quickly escape once hidden; it always took a fair bit of scooting, sliding and crawling to wrench myself free. It further added to the exclusiveness of the bed; there was a clear barrier between 'the rest of the world' and 'under the bed'. It was an escape in its most basic form.

Everything else was so trivial and separate under the bed and could be examined clearly. I could examine the frightening thought of death and the equally frightening thought of the infinity of space. I could reaffirm to myself that I didn't mean to set the rabid dog on the nice policeman. It also clearly wasn't my fault I slapped my brother in my dream only to find out it was my grandma upon immediately awakening...in fact it was all kind of funny under there, in a sick sort of way. No matter what bad thing I did my parents usually gave up pursuit and waited if I was under the bed.

Before I was too big to fit I came to outgrow hiding under the bed. It was childish and dirty and it was much better to run somewhere that I really was alone and no one could find me.

Just out of curiosity and a sprinkling of nostalgia, I tried to cram myself under the bed today. My legs fit and just barely my pelvis, I turned around and by turning it sideways my head squeezed through as well. Shoulders were little of an issue but when I got to my ribcage I had to stop; I just didn't fit.

Where the hell am I supposed to figure out the meaning of life now?

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