I sit at my new writing desk, very still
Meditating upon the literary adventures
I am about to embark on.
My fingertips, wearied by a day of housework,
Unfit from lack of exercise and unaccustomed
To this grand, yet delicate form
Shyly approach the smooth contours of my new toy.
I am a child on Christmas day
Hiding behind the tree
Lingering in anticipation
That the next gift may be for me.
Equally hesitant and fearful.
I know not the greedy pleasure of
Attacking with zealous joy
As there is no bow to untie
No card to read
No thanks to proclaim
Only unequivocal timidness
That this century old piece of furniture
Holds more wit, more charm
More pazazz than I could ever muster.
The wood itself whispers
A hundred stories of its previous owners,
Taunting me with its untold secrets
Of illicit Victorian trysts.
The leather upon which my hand rests
Is pock-marked with impressions-
Calligraphy tattooed love letters.
I bend my head closer to hear
And as my ear touches down
It is greeted with nothing but the sound
Of my own heartbeat,
Wrenching in sympathy
Fearfully excited of the many sleepless
Nights that are yet to come.
Once my brain starts working, there’s really no stopping it.
The room at my parents’ house is finally coming together. For 6 months I’ve been living here, surrounded by books and papers that need stacking and filing. On my walls are photographs that no longer represent the person I have become. I can tell they are disastrously old as the blu-tack has not only melted through the corners and given them a greasy feel but also stained my walls. Today I bought a desk, and two book units. The units will be delivered tomorrow, but I was so excited to finally get my life in order that I hurled myself into the task of arranging, re-arranging, categorising and filing. I’ve led myself to believe that the state of my bedroom and the haphazard way that I conduct my life are intrinsically intertwined. I can’t progress, I can’t fulfill my to-do list, because I have no idea where anything is.
But now I have my desk and now I write…lest I completely forget what that feels like.