Another sleepless night.
I wonder why my mind won’t let my body get some rest.
So here I sit.
Thomas Tallis Scholars playing in the background.
My first cup of coffee.
Books.
Paper.
Pens.
This old desk.
And me.
I bought this desk ten years ago.
I thought I was so grown-up.
Twenty-three years old.
I knew so little about the world, then.
But the sheets of paper that have been strewn across this wood are countless.
And the stories they have told are mine.
And the books that lay about are full of memories.
Stains and markings from the moving and the coffee and the wine.
Getting lost in the pages of Hemingway…
Finding myself again in a lost paradise.
Words.
Words have always been my friends.
And this old desk has been eavesdropping for quite some time.
Wrapped up in rhymes and prose and stories.
The ones that make you laugh and cry and scream at empty spaces.
The ones that make you love and hope and dream of distant places.
The ones that make you look harder and deeper and longer at others’ faces.
Words that consume. That devour. That tear you apart from the inside out.
Lines that wrap themselves around you to the tune of lullabies.
Books, paper, pens, and words.
My old midnight friends.
Oh, how you soothe me.
And oh, how I enjoy the conversations….
Between this old desk. And me.
08 February 2018
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