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by Anna MayerHaving more than one of something had never really bothered her before. Some things you need two of. And she'd always thought a lot about making something from nothing -- not in the sense of blowing a small thing out of proportion into a thing large or annoying, but more in the sense of finding pleasure or meaning in the small or even unobservable. So something from nothing was good, even if it meant she sometimes fell in love for no reason and often was under-prepared for tests. If that something made resulted in a pair, well, that was fine. As she'd already admitted, some things you need two of.
This all changed when she became the owner of two beds. The circumstances of how this happened are relatively unimportant at this point; not unimportant is how having two beds -- one more than she needed -- made her feel. It was overkill, she told herself. It wasn't her fault, she whispered to the room where the two beds waited.
Everyday she wondered which bed meant what, because once you have two of something you're only meant to have one of, those things must mean something different than each other. Otherwise, what's the point? In the case of too many beds it all gets complicated fast, and if that bed means x, then the other must mean y, which means she ended up trying to decide between meanings, not beds.
Her situation is, perhaps, something like having two skies instead of one. Once you have an extra sky, the 'real' sky becomes not the sky but one of two, both of which mean something different. And you want to choose one, but how? One minute you're cloud-watching, daydreaming, totally off the clock, and the next you're asking yourself for the second time that day which is x and which is y, and how did you end up with two of something that should only be one?
Getting back to the girl with two beds, well, she's not sure what to do. She's finally -- for the first time in her life -- realizing that too many of some things is not so easily fixed. She'd always wanted to make something from nothing, but going the other way -- something to nothing -- is a job for magicians and weathermen. Beds are big, and we all need to dream. Maybe she should sing herself to sleep one more time and choose blindly. Maybe she should leave both beds at once, once and for all. Maybe she'll figure out a way to keep them both happy, and herself happy, and too many will become just right.
At least, as you can see, she's dreaming again.
Anna Mayer is an artist. She doesn't live in New York. As of today she resolves to chop more wood.