My pillow is one big paradox of my life. It is an object I use on a daily (or, more specifically, nightly) basis, yet that I never pay much attention to. After sleeping on it for such a long period of time, I still haven’t learnt to acknowledge it in the mornings. Finally, no matter how much I enjoy sleeping on it, I rarely think about what it would be like not to have it. Its firm, yet gentle support is its best feature. It is not too big, nor is it too small. I can sometimes be very rough with it, punching or twisting it around, yet it always seems to welcome me into its cuddly softness. Like many people I know, it can be inconsistent in its appearance. Right now, it is clad in a striped blue outfit. Yet, every two weeks it decides to put on a white outfit with a heart pattern on it. I do not know where this fashion influence comes from, or how it is kept clean. Yet, I suspect my mother has something to do with it. In fact, I am certain she is an accomplice. She is the one who bought the pillow – and along with the pillow case, it might just be another way of tricking me into never leaving the nest. Parents and pillows are tricky like that.
