When I was packing up and getting rid of my stuff in Eugene, the only thing that really hit me during the process of it all was when I got rid of my bed, and as I posted at the time, I thought to myself “For the first time in over 10 years, I no longer have a bed of my own.” The rest somehow didn’t really matter, even the house. A house is just a place to put your stuff. A bed however implies not only that you have a place to sleep that night, but that you have someplace you can come back to, even if it’s just a corner of a room, someplace that’s still yours. It really just confirmed that despite my comfort with traveling, I still like to have a bed somewhere.
And as of today, I once again have a bed I can call my own. Mind you, that bed is far and away the most expensive futon ever conceived by man, but it’s mine. The sheets are new and still crisp and scratchy, but it’s damn comfortable. And it sits in a room in the north Sydney suburb of Artarmon, right along the train line, a quick step to the train station, a little brick square filled with Japanese restaurants and groceries, and a stretch of small essential shops. Most importantly, it’s not in the middle of the city, surrounded by honking horns and business suits. It’s surrounded by palm and eucalyptus trees, from which unfamiliar and exotic bird calls emanate during the day, and what I’m guess are frogs chirp from at night.
I am much more relaxed here.