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Closed Window, Opened Door

I like my desk.

It matches the drawers in the room and the armrests on the sofas. It goes with the walls and doors and ceiling which are either beige or a sullied shade of white. It reflects light in a similar way - similar, that is, to my own table, back at my own house.

I like my desk because it became mine last week.

It matches the drawers and the sofas and all the other aspects of the room, so it tells me that it is in the correct position. It is placed exactly where it was meant to be placed. With all the other things that are also in the correct order. It is at ease with itself, and with the friends around it. It is at home.



Tonight I stood from across the street and tried to pick out the window that betrayed me every morning as it let the sun in. It looked just like any other window and I could not pick it out. I tried to find the specific blinds that rattled as I tried to find rest against the fiendish bed that had an automatic verbal response to every turn of my troubled sleep. But there were so many other closed blinds, hiding so many other naughty beds. This was not home, at least not from the outside, at least not yet.


But my desk is mine. Only I know where my earpiece is. Where the folder with my documents are. Where the spare plastic bags are. Where the second earpiece is. I've made every deliberate decision with regards to this desk, and it is mine, for now. At least for now. And it seems like the only thing that's gonna stay the same, that's gonna be whatever I want it to be.

The people are new, their voices sound alien. Everything is fresh and different. My bed hates me and hates my roommate more. But my desk is my friend, and that's enough for tonight.


--

Also, suite is throwing a party later.

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