At one, the concept of a bed is not quite there yet, but comfort never leaves
At three, one toddles into the sheets of their parents with no intention of sharing
At five, one begins to dread getting up for school
At seven, friends get one through the morning
At nine, one still complains about waking up so early
At eleven, minds begin to change
At thirteen, one lays in bed during the morning in a cloud of self-consciousness
At fifteen, one tosses and turns with thoughts of homework and that cute girl at lunch
At seventeen, one stares at the popcorn ceiling contemplating the future, threads of some unknowable as heavy as lead intertwining the possibilities
At nineteen, one can bend under the burdensome troubles and be sequestered to their comfort at home
Or lift the hulking sheets, Atlas, and go on. Go on to the complex, enigmatic world and return when one is done.