As a kid I used to stay in the blanket, especially on a cold morning.
I would wrap myself entirely in the warm cloth, with only my head sticking out of it. At this posture, the wayward strings and fluffs would be just in front of me. I would watch them in a correspondingly capricious mood, slightly out of focus. Then I would gradually find myself in a virtually isolated state. Cozily isolated.
The world around me disappears. There is just I and the piece of string protruding out of the blanket. I would be immensely happy. Like I was still in the mother's womb. There was nothing to be added, or subtracted. I am in a perfect state of bliss.
Then time passes, and I have to go to the toilet, or prepare myself to go to school. With a sigh and resignation, I would hesitatingly get out of the blanket. Those were the days.
Mornings have become practical nowadays. I seldom get into the blanket mood. When, on a rare occasion, I find myself reluctant to get out of it, I regard it as a special bonus. The spirit of childhood has returned to me.