My Bed
A love letter for the place where it’s always warm and cozy.
The image, “big bed” by Joelk75, was licensed using the CC BY 2.0.
This text was presented at the poetry slam in Hamm in January 2014. This is a recoding, an English translation of the text can be found below:
Under my blanket, the temperature is perfect. You need to understand this to understand this text. It’s sort of like the fundamental laws of thermodynamics.
Between the lowest possible temperature, −273.15° Celsius, and the highest possible temperature, which is 1.41678571×1032 degrees Celsius, there exists only one temperature that is ideal. If you imagine heaven, or nirvana, or whatever you believe in, whatever wonderful things await you if you follow everything someone tells you to the letter — the temperature, the one that’s pleasantly warm, it’s not just any temperature. It’s the ideal temperature. And that’s the temperature in my bed at 6:00 in the morning when the alarm goes off.
I mean at 6:10 when the alarm rings a second time.
I mean at 6:20 when it rings a third time.
I mean at 6:30, when I finally turn off the horribly screeching thing.
A treacherous device, meant to drag me out of this nurturing womb. But I can’t blame it, really — it’s not in my bed after all. It’s out there. Poor thing. And I can already feel, right on the tip of my nose, that arctic temperatures await outside my bed. How they got in here, I don’t really know. Maybe a window’s open. If so, it’s definitely out of reach from the bed, and therefore completely out of my control.
Alright. Stay calm. Assess the situation. Think, calculate. A glance at the alarm clock, which for some mysterious reason has survived the violent slam against the wall. 6:32. First: relax. There’s still plenty of time. The appointment isn’t until 10 o’clock. One hour travel time, half an hour for breakfast, morning routine, shower—together also half an hour—and I wanted to do an hour of morning exercise. That means: I need to get started at 7:00. So not now. Factually speaking, I have 27… 26 minutes to doze a bit more. And to reflect on that wonderful dream, where clothing was rather scarce. To indulge in the feeling of being in the arms of my mother.
A quick check on the clock again. It seems the blow did affect it more than expected. I had my eyes closed for maybe five minutes—seven at most. Ten maximum. But now it shows 7:20. I grab my phone and check it. Damn! That stupid phone has teamed up with the alarm clock and shows the same time!
Stay calm. I can go for a short jog. Just half an hour outside. Better than nothing, gets the blood pumping. Or—well, tomorrow is another day… tooomooorrrooow. Why all this stress. Fine. Let’s do it tomorrow. That gives us 38… 37 minutes to doze some more. Wonderful.
The loud beeping and clattering of the garbage truck outside wakes me at exactly 8:12. People who have to work early. Disgusting. I briefly wonder whether I feel pity for them or resentment—for waking me with their noise and the guilt.
It’s already too late for a proper breakfast, but I can grab something on the way. First things first—I go to the bathroom. While there, I scroll through Facebook on my phone to see what my friends have been up to—and more importantly, how late. The last post was at 3:15 a.m. So when it comes to going to bed early, I’m not the worst failure. STRIKE!
One friend posted something thoughtful—I need to read that more carefully. It’s personal, very emotional, and there’s only one place where something like that should be read—the perfect place, with the ideal temperature. I flush, wash my hands, and return to bed to read it. I read it, and as I think about it, I close my eyes.
There’s a knock at the door. I shuffle to answer it. It’s the delivery guy asking if I can accept a package for a neighbor. I bark at him that it’s way too early to ring people’s doorbells. He replies that 10:21 isn’t exactly early.
Damn.
I’m late.
I need to shower, grab something to eat quickly, then rush to work like a low-flying aircraft. First: shower. I rip off my pajamas and run naked to the bathroom. Pause, realize something, run back to the front door, and slam it shut in the face of the now slightly shocked delivery guy. I jump into the shower and turn on the tap. Water from the northern polar sea shoots from the showerhead—until the water heater finally kicks in and now, finally, the ideal temperature flows over me. As a farewell to my bed, I let the water run over me a little longer than I should.
With a misbuttoned shirt, crumbs on my clothes, and unshaven, I arrive at the appointment. My boss’s eyes can’t kill—but they try anyway.
The client takes it in stride: “So, trouble getting to work?”
“Well, depends how you look at it. Are you familiar with the fundamental laws of thermodynamics?”
