Many years ago, I used some fancy metaphor in my writing, something like "my blanket was textiled in threads of masochism and my dreams coated in grief."
Very dramatic that one was. But it's interesting how we use metaphors that are most real to us, almost like an actual literal description.
Since moving countries, my bed and blanket are in fact the comfiest place - safe, peaceful and my dreams are (for the most part) calming or non-existent.
These days I process my uncomfortable feelings in bed (rather than running away from them), I sleep in as long as I want to when I'm fatigued, and when I lie down in bed, I literally feel the peace in my shoulders.
If I were to write another metaphor it would be this:
"I found a peace whilst hiking a rocky, uphill path. The power of that peace was akin to a Saviour who comes and cracks the sack on your back you've been carrying. Out of the sack falls every piece of your load. You don't look at it, you don't know where it falls. All you know is that feeling of peace that touches the edges of both your shoulders, as you sleep, breathe, and rest, beneath a vast night sky.
You are untouchable, you are safe, and you walk accompanied.
That is the peace the world cannot give."
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