Her neptunian bed did it again.
“Would it be alright if I took a small nap, 20 minutes maybe?” her friend asks, just moments after sitting on that cloud of scrambled sheets, and the original heap of clothes to one side (nobody but her knows for sure if they’re dirty or clean).
“Something about your bed, it’s got some strange power going on…”
Immense gravity pulls them to surrender, insomniacs will be absorbed into the vortex inevitably, she’s a piscean representative and this is her main workplace, where rest is mandatory, letting go duty, prerequisites before plunging into dreamscapes.
Her mattress, oblivious to the many tests of house moves and time, from her preteens to womanhood, is her cloud nine lounge, protected by a first house moon, rosy, and auspicious. Her mind ebbs and flows with the tide of natural cycles, and rest is no exception. What Neptune whispers others might find unintelligible. Voices echo and merge with thunderclaps and hums, brains fizz with confusion, but here is where she finds her pleasure, those malleable psychological cities where all is possible and yet, events unpredictable, the sweet unravelling of reality.
Once in bed she rides the merging currents of worlds few are aware of. Flowing watercolours run into one another, and merge, and dissolve, and reappear, in endless repetition but always changing. Her bed an island amidst the storm her visitors bring along. Worry, failure, frustration, inadequacies held, can all rest, be forgotten, dissolved. Her waterbed manifest from of her psyche, the girl’s been swimming since birth, a shimmering mermaid of ample hip, and flowing hands, she conjures the powers of Neptune, from her island of sheets and clothes, her private lounge on cloud nine.