The Desk

A scavenged piece of wood that you could feel was rejoicing at the bitterly spat words ‘seen better days’, such historical depths in every chip, dent, splinter of timelessly fractured lumber that reeked of emotional energy spilt beverages, as an under moisturised hand ran silently over the surface of the desk. Two relationships readily/foolishly entered and a few friendships that hath since been unwittingly driven into life’s gutter, the march of time mercilessly trampling any human based affiliation under depressively trudging foot, but still this archaic structure of wood stood before him as an unflinching comrade in creative arms.

Varnish thinning, mug rings discolouring with countless brown circles across its roughened stretch as the familiar heat from an old (ish) laptop sunk into the otherwise cold material, a memorable stain of something more potent than tea lurking in the far corner. That mark a remnant of a former life, as soured as the corrupted sentiment of a vodka bottle forcibly projected with rage upon the slightly scratched corner, his face overcast with the grimly shadowing sadness of that night.

All that illuminated this particular emergence of darkness, the harsh chime of his watch signalling the midnight hour, was the irradiating glow of the computer screen that eerily framed two fast paced hands ghostly drifting at pace across the keyboard, the rest of the rather unloved looking room faded into irrelevant mist as creative fever obsessively concentrated on the screen.

The strained eyes sunk into pale rings of flesh wilfully neglecting to look elsewhere for fear they might glance a mirror, a picture or risk triggering that ever poisonous thing known to most as a memory, to him they were lecherous hands grasping sinisterly to drag him back to humanity. Tea replaced with clear venom, the time wasting delivery of a glass superseded by the directness of a bottle, another empty container half heartedly discarded for sake of its replacement.

Painful winch as with foreknowing he sensed life creeping up to pull him back into the petri-dish of existence, strained eyes turned inward glare with angry intent as letters smothered the clean white electronic display, words formed in resentful arrangements to cast out demons that had long since dwelled. The knowledge that the time quickened with each taunting tick, tock, eventually pulling him away from the faithful comrade of wooden construction and timeless figure so he would have to face the world, in all its lacking appeal… Why couldn’t he be left to his words, letters and literal works, in which everything made sense.

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