Saturday, June 23, 2012

Every child for itself

The Belly-Mouth-Saber-tooth-Eight-Hand Monster

Sometimes I lay under my bed, inbetween the winter clothing, suitcases and boxes of shoes. I feel smothered, like in a grave. Same is for the closet, for I am not as small as a moth and the closet is not as big as a room. Well, how big is a room. Can be as big as someone else's house is, it's still a room. So it really doesn't matter wether I lay under the bed or in a big room. I still feel smothered. I think I wouldn't make a good under-the-bed-monster or a better in-the-closet-monster. These poor monsters. I actually pity them, as I lay here under my bed. They're not the monsters actually, the monster is the one above. Did any child ever think of looking down and asking the poor thing if it wants to sleep above? Did you? Did I? Poor monster. Maybe that's the only reason they became monstrous. You know being trapped there, the whole day. And by nightfall they can't bare it any more and pop out raging and aching and tired. And the spoiled child shivers and cries and pees in horror.  I am the monster. And since I am laying under my bed, I am my own under-the-bed-monster. Every child is its own under-the-bed-monster. So every child should ask himself/herself, if it wants to sleep above, and things should work out just fine. But I guess they are too busy asking others about other things. Well, nevermind. I'm 22 by the way, how old are you? Let's pick wild flowers and wonder why they die at home.

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