Flawless In Their Own Flawed Way

To anyone else, my desk would look fairly plain. Its forest-green surface is scratched and marred from years of loving abuse. I used to think it was ugly. Old, battered, and ugly. But now I see that it is something else entirely. It is beautiful. Utterly, purely, unrelentingly beautiful. Its shining, golden knobs stand out from their dark surroundings like bright, white stars in an otherwise clear night sky; both things awesome in their own way.

To anyone else, my desk would look like a simple area for schoolwork or for a laptop to safely rest in lieu of being swallowed by the bed across from it (which is much too likely for my mother's peace of mind). It holds a pencil sharpener, translucent and red, pleading to be used, begging to be filled; a large scarlet lamp with pointed beads, red mixed with a clear nothingness that together make a pretty light red - a color you might see on the horizon during a beautiful dawn. They are used as tassels, some of them melted from who-knows-what, but most of them simple plastic icicles, flawless in their own flawed way. They remind me of tiny, reddish people: pointed to ward off intruders; multifaceted, but plastic nonetheless; each one similar, and yet each one unique. The select few that stand out look different, and the eye is easily drawn to them. But who is to say that they are better or worse than their plain-looking comrades? Who is to say that they are more beautiful or more marred than most? Who is to say that they are more special than the others, or just the same with altered packaging?

Not me, that's for sure.

The lamp's base, I suppose, was meant to be black. Or is it dark brown? Its curves, its cuts, its layers are marked with dust as old as the last deep clean this lamp lived to see, and a multitude of scratches as old as the lamp itself. Appearing from the dusty base is a thin, brown cord running in confusing patterns to an old, cream-colored power cord too jumbled to describe. A cord is a truly under-appreciated piece of hardware. It provides the necessary power to the objects on which we most often depend.

The only other object on my desk is a small stick of chap stick that provides me with my repetitive re-applications, which have become an oddly comforting habit.

(And besides, they make my lips soft and supple!)

Well, the only other object besides you. You, my unknowing but unrelentingly willing audience.

You, a once-empty piece of paper, now covered by my ever-changing cursive (if it could be classified as anything, it would probably be cursive).

You, the most perfect listener, the most accepting partner. You, who has always been there for me, through crushes and rants, doodles and daydreams. You, a gorgeous piece of college-ruled, spiral-bound notebook paper. You.

To anyone else, my desk would look like an old, dark green desk with a small red pencil sharpener; a large, scarlet lamp with dangling plastic beads, some melted from who-knows-what; a small stick of chap stick that boasts a creamy almost swirl flavor; and a notebook, open to a page filled to its brim with the mismatched words of a tired girl.

But to me, my desk is peace. To me, my desk is happiness; it is freedom and it is acceptance.

To me, my desk is home.