My Blue Bed Sheets

This bed is not helpful. The blue sheets lay on top the mattress waiting for another night to

quickly settle, yes, the blue sheets do love when the stars are out. I doubt they like it as much

on the days when I sleep in until noon or after or when I take constant naps during the lively

day. The blue bed cover feels a lost sense of purpose; exactly when is it the right time to

ensue comfort to the human? It once thought it knew that night, when the silver moon rises

and scary sounds are imagined, was the natural and logical time to start its warm comforting

ritual. And now suddenly in the course of recent years its job has creaked and cracked like

the bedroom's floorboards. It feels that its meaning lessens or changes when used

unappreciatively during sunlit hours, or suppose the human DOES appreciate its use, it

feels... a pinch of hurt pride. It must wish the human could understand everything it believes

in and its principles it lives by, whatever they may be, because it kindly sees through its task

every night-its natural job-and then at day, becoming less of a blue sheet until its meaning

has faded like a three-day-old ink scribble on the skin.

Despite my strange and profound knowledge of my bed, I find it to be no help.