31 Letters in 31 Days: Letter 14 – Dear Desk
You stayed in an ex boyfriend’s bedroom for two years a while ago, whilst I had an ugly, 1980’s style school desk, with metal coating the top of the deep drawers. It was industrial, ugly and made the most irritating squeaking noises when I typed or wrote longhand too quickly. You never made a noise, no matter how fast I did anything. When I got you back, you were still filled with little bits and pieces of his. I put the things in a plastic bag and sprayed you with the best furniture polish I could afford. I gave you an hour of love and attention, rubbing the grime out of the cracks in the wood, and the gothic carvings around the drawer handles. I even used cotton buds to reach the hard to get to places, until you shone like I remembered you shone before you were hidden under a few foot of plywood, and then lost under a mountain of artistic chaos. I want to build my house around you, eventually, and allow my children to give you and your five drawers’ names. I practically live with my legs under you and my hands skimming your smooth surface. You play home to some of the most important things in my life, and I feel like I can complete anything when I pull my shaky chair up to you. You have been there through almost all of the peaks and troughs in my life. You were there when I received countless rejections and numerous acceptances for my writing, or job applications or friend requests. You have been there when I have ran for hours across pages of my diary with a leaking ball point pen, and when I have realised I have messed up my life and need to start again. I cannot count how many words I have written with my laptop and notebooks resting on you, and I can’t even begin to imagine how many more will come. I will die before you reach your peak. I think I’ll want my bones to be placed, lose and locked in your drawers, so they’d rattle and shake, because, you see, I think I’d be envious of anyone having anything even remotely similar to the magical era I had with you.