The Writing Desk

The Sunday morning was fine. The air was crystal clear, bright, laved by the previous nights rain. The rays from the sun slanting through the trees and thick leaves created beams and lace-works on the ground. The nature was complete, full.

But my writing desk was deserted, except with a couple of text books, which in comparison with the arrays of books and writing materials formerly occupied the table was next to be negligible. And I was sad. However, as it was a Sunday, I have nothing much to do the whole day. So I decided to postpone my sadness and to utilise the rest of the day to study some Literary Theories of criticism. I woke up late. It was already half past seven in the morning. 

I had an instinctual pull to read. But suddenly, mom interfered and insisted that I should take a bath. It was summer and two times bath a day was a must for survival.I bathed and had my breakfast. Until I came back to my study table and restart my reading and writing, a mysterious emotion had captured one of the sensitive lobs in my brain: laziness. I felt sad. But that sadness was not accompanied by laziness. The sadness was caused by the change in the environment of my personal table; my writing table. 

Due to the arrival of some guests, my room had been shuffled and rearranged to suit the needs of the guests. I was given another room. And in that process, my table, with high columns of books on both of its sides also was rearranged. Books were stashed in a shelf, and the table was made 'clean'. Being so emotional as to maintain the bridge of emotion with even the non-living things like the books, the table and the pens, I felt all this changes unbearable. Pansexuality:  the affection towards even the nonliving things in our lives. I loved my table and the order in which the table had been maintained. My sadness was for the loss of that order.        

The guests were all gone and I was back in my room, but it looked strange and unfamiliar now. I felt lonely and full at the same time. I felt lonely, for I couldn't find a single person near in order to understand the emotional significance of those dusty books and unclean writing table in my life. I felt full, for I was feeling true love; the kind of love that never respects void.