The Hollows under the Mattress

Last night, I delved into the mysteries of what lay in my bed. By this, I mean, the hollow interior of my bed, beneath the mattress. The bed is split into two parts, one of which you are meant to open to use as a storage space, and the other section you weren't, but does now, thanks to the application of a cheap craft knife to the thin material. 

There was a lot of stuff in there. Most of the stuff was just clothes, and records (I don't have a record player). There were some CDs I wanted (I found the Stupids' Peel Sessions CD again) a few magazines (mostly Sunday supplements) and bags full of the kind of nonsense that really should have been got rid of a long time ago; old receipts, old wage slips. One bag seemed full of a mixture of tarot cards from different packs, a thousand futures all collapsing in on itself. There were a few photographs stretching back to me teenage years. One even showing a blurry picture of a school trip dating from when I was 9 or 10. Funny the things that follow you about through the years when other things get lost. I found a book of poems from the summer of 2004. I used to write poems prolifically. This notebook contained around about 150. I didn't bother reading them.

I stuffed everything back under the bed (I really only wanted to retrieve any CDs that were there) and stuffed everything back into the musty hollows.

When I went to sleep later on (No work today, so this was about 2:00am) I thought of those hollows below me, full of things that weren't much use or that much interest to me, but that I still couldn't get rid of nonetheless.