It actually sounds rather disgusting upon further thought.. but still, when I envision myself working on my great masterpiece it is in a dingy, messy, cluttered slate blue office, at an old, worn in but sturdy wooden desk in front of a window, that is apparently several stories up... with a mug that has been reused far too many times between cleanings and a cigarette lit, in hand. How I could type like that I have no clue. But this crappy Walmart particle board piece of garbage I'm sitting at right now, in a makeshift office that really is just a fake room that leads to other rooms... the family room, the bathroom, the laundry room... This office is a glorified entryway, and it just doesn't feel enough like a real writers working space. I don't feel enough like a real writer.
But I know that looking back it will all seem far more romantic than it does now. That is how nostalgia works. Whether it is for something real or imagined. We all romanticize negative aspects of other people's lives, of their pasts and sometimes of our own pasts... but those same things, present tense in our lives become glaring distractions and are easily turned into excuses. If only I knew now that looking back this desk with it's water marks and my dusty generic keyboard and boring glass of good old H2O will seem so poetic.
Ahh... but, I do. And still I hate them. Maybe that hate is what is required in order to create that future love. The good old days aren't any fun to look back on if it weren't for the things that drove you crazy that no longer exist. Things from a time when you did what you loved despite those annoying little nuances. It's the things that stick out like sore thumbs that always stick forever to your happy memories. They meld and bind together with the love of the act until suddenly there is a love for the thing as well. The very thing you spent so much valuable time wishing away.
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