21 January 2014
Looking at photos of writing desks yesterday and earlier this morning made me sad somewhat. Just–
I’m longing for a room of my own. A space of my own. I’ve been thinking lately that of course if I’m being honest with myself, my desire for this has little to do with writing and mostly concerns my peace of mind. Because if I’m going to write, then of course I’m going to write, whenever, wherever, regardless of any desk there is in existence (or non-existence).
I mean–I write while I’m lying down on the floor, in the dark with only my iPod as light, in the backseat of a car in a parking lot with the moon peeking in the window. I write to you in my head while washing the dishes, I write my to-do list while taking a shower, I write lines for poems while doing the groceries.
So, really–what I want is space to myself. To be alone in. To sulk in. To think in. To dissolve in. Where no one would disturb me, where I can be quiet, where I can’t speak for days.
P.S. I saw that photo by Gisèle Freund via your Pinterest. That was a lovely find.