At some point, when you are a slave to the Muses, you give up trying to fit yourself into a niche. You stop being what you “should” (should being an incredibly evil word) be and start being what you ought to be. And you find you are — finally — at peace.
I don’t think it is necessary to make my bed. I like it deliciously rumpled. I think it sends a signal a perfectly made bed negates. Though neat, a perfectly made bed is not as inviting to me. The sheets are not exposed … it looks less raw. By contrast. one looks at an unkempt bed and wonders what has recently happened there. Was the owner of said bed recently ravished? Or did she wake and stretch, having just enjoyed a refreshing rest? Did she smile as she uncurled, and did she reluctantly relinquish her hold on the one pillow she loves best among the tumbled half-dozen at the head of the bed?
My sheets are like me. Clean, certainly … i do adore the scent of freshly laundered sheets and, between washings, i spray them with a lovely, light mandarin orange scented linen spray … but not neat. You look at my decadently mussed bed, you take in the splotches of ink in a riot of colors, and you can tell that I am happy. Can’t you?