Whee, a balloon

Far Off Blog

Rooftop views and safe havens

When I lived in Paris, a lot of my waking life revolved around my bed. This wasn’t so much because I was lazy or perpetually tired, but rather because (poor penniless writer that I was) I didn’t have a desk - and because my attic bedroom with its sloping ceiling and rooftop views offered a welcome haven from my well-meaning but hard to handle housemates. I translated articles in bed. I edited videos in bed. As if of their own accord, books stacked up beside my bed, with books I meant to read, books I had started to read, books I had somewhere along the way inhaled the essence of. Wine glasses and coffee cups intermingled just under the bed, safely out of the way of my stockinged feet. Once I lost my mobile for weeks, only to find it tucked down the side of the matress. I wrote the first poem I ever submitted to a magazine sitting beside that bed, leaning against the wall, the tips of my toes brushing the bottom of my bed.

smoking in bed

So for this week’s writing prompt, imagine a life whose world, for whatever reason, has shrunk to the size of a bedroom.

Image (cc) holgabot/ Flickr

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