I felt quite good yesterday. Not only because the hours in my busy schedule freed themselves up to make room for a lovely Saturday with romantic strolls through the market with bloomy-scented flowers and tasters from all over the world, it was more of a calming feeling that rushed over me and took hold of my thoughts. I, for the first time in my life, felt like I was moving forward and working towards a long-wished-for independence.
The reason why may seem a bit odd, but the arriving of my long-awaited boxspring bed was the catalyst for my good mood and satisfied feeling, not because I’m a material girl like young Madonna once sang, but because I felt that that was the first step to taking control over my life and over a new beginning. A beginning that entails new furniture, a monthly paycheck, and the prospects of a life where the secure safety net of the very first home where the first babysteps were taken does no longer exist. And I have a bed to thank for that. My adult sense forces me to hide away the bills and cents from that paycheck, where I spent all month working for, until that much needed change comes looking around the corner and draws in the urge to move that cosy bed into a place of my own.
A place with a huge black entrance door, high ceilings, flower wallpaper and English-style furniture; a place where the 20s are still alive, elegance dances through the rooms and glamour sings to the walls. As I sit on that new bed in that -still- same old room in that -still- same old house, my thoughts take me to conversations yet to have, laughs yet to be made and tears yet to be dried on that bed that will own a part of me in a few years when all those memories have soaked in its mattress. Until then, I’ll just keep on dreaming under the covers here to catch a glimpse of a distant life.
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