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More than a Desk

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My arms run over the fine elm craftsmen ship, embracing the smooth feel of polished wood as it presses into my skin deeply. Papers lightly flutter around the exterior, waiting with baited breath to be subdued, so they may not have to worry about how they may fall off into what can only be known as the “void” that is my bedroom floor. Bottles with half drank beverages stand like gravestones, lone and neglected in the night air, waiting for the familiar feel of friendly lips to press against them, returning their sense of purpose in this cruel world. Random knickknacks and items of little importance somehow find their way into the clutter and chaos, leaving me to question later on how in the heck they had arrived there anyway. Like a hectic symphony, all of these things I had procured meshed into one coexisting community of personal belongings. All tied together with one thing in common, the fact that they all rest upon my desk, my home, my escape, my sanctuary.

To the normal person it is just a desk. Something created to fill a need. Deep within a British Colombian forest, some lumber jack routinely sliced at an oak, until from the sky it descended like an angel falling from grace. That tree was then hauled away, they would all think, to a run of the mill factory. There it would be sliced into 2 by 4’s and given a purpose. The factory workers would outfit it with a glossy finish, just like every other piece they had gone over that day and the day before, cookie cutter style. The finished wood would then be shipped to another factory for packaging. Bolts and bits would be bundled into plastic bags expectant on keeping the majestic wood in its upright and locked position on assembly. After being fully packaged, the desk, along with countless others, would be sent to some home-store together like IKEA. There, they would sit, waiting for someone to take them home, like orphans at a nursing home. Some people say it is just a normal desk made some random person. But I think we were made for each other, like two puzzle pieces that had been lost at birth, needing fate to bring us back in contact to fully be able to exist as a whole.
My desk just so happens to be the central hub of my room. Like a letter in the postal system, I revolve around it at all times. Since it sits at the very center of my room, nothing is out of reach when I’m sitting at my wooden castle. And who would need to move when your desk is the inanimate equivalent of the Batcave. With so many different compartments and nooks to hide my dirty little secrets, this hollow bastion knows the darker side of me. Yet, like a faithful friend, they remain silent, unbiased, and resolute. It’s a hard and rigid mystery to any outside visitor, but to me it’s that all too familiar touch. Those ridges have turned to curves and that hard exterior surface is only hiding the soul inside of it. That’s right, my desk is more than just a furnishing, and it’s a living breathing person. More than that, it’s a lady, a creature so tender and caring that only she can fix you after bad days. Sure, It may so crazy to anyone else, but she isn’t meant for anyone else, she is my girl, my Lilith.

Lilith has always been my place of peace, or my sanctuary since I was a little kid. When I was very young, I would always get bullied by other kids to no end during school. So to ease my pain I would come straight home and get on my computer to take my mind away from things like dumb kids and how many things were wrong with me at the time. I don’t know if it was my computer or the desk itself, but at the end of the day all I could think of was how much I liked my life and how I didn’t wish for anything to change in it. So In a way, Lilith is like a second mother to me. She constantly consoles me with the cool embrace of her wood to my palms. She offers me a chance to think things through in a comfortable setting, allowing my mind to flow freely and to adjust to the days ever evolving equations. But more than anything, Sheila acts as a home within my home. I can just sit down at her and not have to worry about anyone but my work. It is as if my entire existence fades into a bleak hue and only the desk and I remain, attached at the seams, knowing soon we will be separated, yet still cherishing the time we are spending together, just living inside of the moment at hand. My desk is a lady, my lady, and I will never let go of my lady.

Even now as I type this essay, my desk is there to push me along, guiding me toward a better path. Though I would like to be elsewhere, like with my friends, my Sheila keeps me glued to her for the time being. Most people would think that she is just a desk, but most people have not been through the things that we have. Bits of soul infused in her wood from me to her as I constantly pour my feelings out of me and into her. Time bends and wraps around us as I feverishly type pound away at the keys, hoping to be descriptive enough for this essay. Though I may at times take for granted all of the miniscule tasks that she performs for me, at the back of my head, I know that without her I would be typing everything on the floor. I slowly run the back of my hand along her cool surface and polished wood, and a smile escapes me, along with a tear.





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