Of Bedside Musings and Silent Celebrations

Monday’s offering from the Kingdom of Sheets
Though I’ve always preferred to write at my desk—where discipline leans in with a knowing look and the chair has learned the precise geometry of my back—there’s an undeniable magic to the laptop: a freedom machine. It lets you write where inspiration stumbles in half-awake, hair wild if I had any and thoughts wilder. Today, it’s in bed. In the sanctuary. That’s what a bedroom is supposed to be, isn’t it? A place where the noise of the world goes to wait in the hall. Where even God knocks softly before entering.

This morning, in the cradle of duvet and quiet light, I found myself considering origins. Of the universe. Of Mondays. Of how something—everything—could come from nothing. Perhaps God has always existed, lounging in pre-time, trying out blueprints on other worlds that fizzled and faded. And now it’s our turn—Earth’s chance to finally get it right. Ambitious, that Earth. I admire her optimism.

Yes, it’s a farfetched musing, but that’s what writing in bed is for: detours and daydreams in equal measure.

This year, I celebrated Pride silently. Not in the streets or under glitter-confetti skies, but in the quiet triumph of knowing who I am—without needing a parade to affirm it. That said, it did my heart good to see celebration bloom worldwide. Even in Budapest, where Pride was officially banned in Hungary, the mayor ignored the memo and one hundred thousand souls showed up anyway. I like that mayor.

New York, of course, did its usual million-strong turnout. But let’s be honest: as the tradition ages, the crowd seems to get younger. You look around and feel like the parental chaperone who wasn’t invited but brought snacks anyway. Eventually, you start wondering if maybe the dancefloor isn’t yours anymore.

And that’s okay.

This year, Pride was a velvet-rope affair, guest list capped at three: me, a reconnection that once felt lost to time, and a kind soul who sat across from me with a drink and no judgment. In that small communion, I found my parade.

So here I am. Writing from a bed that doubles as a launchpad and chapel. Feeling lucky. Feeling mildly enlightened. And feeling, always--

Bee Yourself.