I told him today, I missed a desk the most. A proper place to write. In the last month that's all I've wanted. I've never not had that.
As nice as it is, daydreaming and indulging in some floating consciousness, the truth is I need the solidity of pen on paper, paper on wood. A tidy little hideaway, complete with tiny metal clips, stamps, and envelopes waiting to be stuffed. It's calming.
I used to write elaborate poetry to the loves of my life I had yet to meet in a space like that. I could avoid the endless sentence of a marriage I hated. I could be my own Blake. Be my own Bukowski. I could be me.
Writing is my sanity. And a desk, the vessel. Tomorrow begins my search.
Wish me luck.
x
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