5 Minute Freewrite Day 584: Nest

I like to see myself as a writer, a poet more specifically. If only because of my frequent use of literary devices in my daily speech, mostly metaphors. So a fork is the trident to consume piece by piece the soul remnants of an evil cow, or the hills around my city are like the humps of a group of giant camels that got turned into stone.

Like that, some are silly, some are indeed poetic, but usually well liked in general. And there is only one clear exception to that rule: my bed. I see myself as the nocturnal bird that makes its nest in a very personal way, a very untidy way, because a touch of chaos is the best comfort for ideas to be born, because it makes it feel like I’m actually sleeping there. “Even crows and owls are more organized”, says my mother every time she comes to visit, she doesn’t like my metaphor.