If something in this world hears every murmur without a grumble, it's our pillow. As tough as we act by daylight, the minute our head hits it at night, the authentic self spills out—laughter now, tears then, dreams, fears, and truths we never share. Imagine if that very pillow suddenly talked—how many secrets would it betray to the world?
As soon as we wake up in the morning, the pillow first complains, 'Bro, why were you punching me all night? Were you dreaming or practicing boxing?' We'd look around embarrassed, but the pillow won’t stop. It sits down to narrate the entire night’s account.
For those who sleep every night thinking, 'I'll change my life from tomorrow,' their pillow laughs the most. It says, 'I've been hearing this for the last three years. Every night brings new enthusiasm, and every morning brings the same old laziness.'
Some people's pillows are very emotional. They say, 'You smile in front of everyone all day, but the moment you come into your room, you put your head on me and start crying. The world thinks you're happy, but I know how much burden you carry in your heart.'
If pillows started telling the truth, perhaps the most trouble would be for those who say on the phone, 'No, no, I'm about to sleep right now,' and then spend the next three hours on their phone. The pillow would immediately blurt out, 'Stop lying. You were watching reels until 2 AM. You didn't let me sleep either.'
A student's pillow tells the funniest stories. It says, 'They opened the book at night and said they'd study the whole subject. Five minutes later, they picked up their phone, and then it was all lost. Finally, they placed the book on me and started snoring.'
Office workers' pillows are no better off. Every night they hear the same chatter: 'One more year, then peace.' Next year rolls around, and it's the same lie. The pillow wonders, 'When does this promised comfort ever arrive?'
Some hug their pillows to sleep. If it could talk, it'd beg, 'Bro, I'm a pillow, not a stuffed toy. Loosen up—I'm suffocating.'
Many punch pillows in anger. Job stress, study pressure, love woes, life's mess—the poor pillow takes the first hit. If it could speak, it'd say, 'Someone else messes up, but I get beaten.'
Some pillows belong to midnight mutterers. 'I wish I'd done that...' 'If only I hadn't said...' 'Should I talk to them tomorrow?' The pillow hears it all. If it talked, secrets would spill worldwide.
Funniest are those who set alarms: 'Wake me at 5 a.m.' The pillow snickers, 'Bro, that alarm's for your phone. You barely stir by 8.'
Kids' pillows catch dreams of cartoons, candy, and holidays. Adults' pillows age with EMI, bills, meetings, and future fears.
A lover's pillow would confess, 'You strut all day, but at night you smile and cry over old chats.'Some stash cash, chocolates, phones, or remotes under pillows then forget. The pillow scoffs, 'Think I'm a bank locker?'
Hotel pillows witness the wildest tales. New faces, habits, stories daily. One sleeps instantly, another phones all night, one snores the room down. If they gave interviews, their memoir would be a bestseller.
Maybe why humans, even on their hardest days, still go back to bed and pillow. Because no questions, no judgments there, just a bit of peace. So good pillows don't talk. If they did, tears from night, unfulfilled dreams, random anxieties, phone addiction, false promises, all heart's secrets would spill out one by one to the world. Then we'd think twice before lying down, wondering if pillow could tell everything tomorrow. So next time you rest head on pillow at night, smile once. Because it's a companion knowing all your secrets, but till today, never said a thing.
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