...

My desk is a bit cluttered. In some ways it reflects how I feel about myself, unordered, waiting for a cleansing. Just like my life it's full of myself, except that they're just object. They have no relation to my functions of living, but they are memories of a kind. Multiple pens are strewn around, usually without their caps, there's also plenty of material to write on. Mostly letters that I received for my birthdays. There's a single letter there not for me, and it's a birthday card my family sent my ex when it was still living with me. There's also little notes from said ex, which I keep the same way I keep everything. In a place, out of time, a spot that was never meant for it, underneath my monitor. My most used writing material is probably my notebook. A blank I bought 3 years ago that sees sporadic use, most often in times that I feel worse. It's stained with a peanut curry I made 2 years ago, but the smell has long worn off.

Usually my desk will have atleast a single vessel of food or drink, used and waiting to be washed of its sins. Today the bowl of my rather late dinner, is joined by two cans, stacked on top of each other. My kindle is lying around, waiting for the next time I travel. I've been intending to put it in my jacket again so I can always read something. Though lately I've been bringing books everywhere. There's a candle inside a swan I got as a prize for winning a bookquiz, my most recently used nail polish, and an SSD I've been meaning to install.

I like my clutter, its how things should be, how they are, really. A bit messy, not stylized, but covered in a thin layer of dust. Just like me. You only get covered in dust when you stand still. I've wanted time to stand still so much the past few years, I wish I had that layer of dust.