my writing desk
A path has been cleared.
I spent Christmas day, from 5 p.m. to 12 p.m. cleaning and organizing my room.
Everything has a place. All my piles of paper have been banished to the filing cabinet where they sit hugging one another in colorful folders. The floor is clear and most importantly I have created a space to write in.
I have two desks in my room. One is of dark wood and is a tall desk. Michael gave it to me. It is tall like him. The right hand corner has f u c k scrawled into it, but I don’t mind. It seems to connect me to the depravity of life which my dreaming side frequently forgets. This desk sits next to my bed, under a window, and is home to my laptop. Unfortunately, the space around my laptop rarely remains clear. Instead books stack themselves around my computer, and papers fall into messy piles, leaving me no space to write.
My other desk. My recently dubbed writing desk, sits across the wall. It sits facing a blank wall with a window on the left wall, behind my back. If my other desk was made for giants, this one was made for hobbit and the wood, unlike the richness of the tall desk, is pale. But it is perfect.
I am writing.