I got a desk.
It’s a light wooden color, almost cream but with unmistakable wooden marks. It may not be real wood.
It doesn’t really matter about the desk. What matters is that it is a defined space. My Space.
My roommate/boyfriend/move-in-during-covid-guy has been seemingly relentless in his want to give me my own space. A space where I can have a desk, good chair, two monitors. A place to keep all my papers. A place that I can call my own.
4 months ago, when I first moved in, I was a perch-wherever-I-like kind of girl. I had a laptop and would rotate around the 1 bedroom apartment spending part of my day on the couch, part on the deck, part at the dining room table. All I needed was my laptop and I was good to go… much like how I live my life.
But now, we are so on top of each other and my body hurts from consistently rounding my back to stare at my laptop. I conceded. I needed my own spot.
So here I am writing from my own desk. It feels good. I feel free.
Funny how that works. Planting roots makes me feel free.