When a dream dies a little bit day by day, rolling slowly like the wheels on the wagon of an old horse pulling in the high summer sun, it is a soul-destroying thing.
Why am I delving so deeply into the realm of feelings? Well, I have this roll top desk.
Yes, this roll top desk that I have wanted since the day I discovered home decorating. That I’ve wanted since the day I fell in love with vintage design. The one I imagined in a room brightly lit by the sunshine pouring in, the white curtains blowing inward. The one I’ve wanted since I started writing. The one that, in my dreams, I’ve always sat down to write on. The desk that helped me pen the next great American novel.
Besides my teenage years when I gave it a coat of bright high gloss white, it has always been brown. I could always see the grain, its story. That desk always had brass knobs.
So imagine the feelings in my heart when I found this desk at a thrift store. Imagine it because I don’t have the talent to create the sentence that would explain it. I’m working on that.
My home has the perfect spot for it. The lines, the size are a perfect fit. Everything is perfect. Except one thing.
I’ve been trying to keep my office things in my beautiful desk. But nothing ever quite fits. And its drawers have quickly become filled though there’s hardly much in them. The work surface is too small for laptop and work surface combined.
When I was purchasing this one, there was another roll top desk of similar style next to it. It was about double the size. I took this one instead because it would complement and not dominate the room. I love my things, but I love most of them quite equally. They all have their purpose and tell a story. This is a good story, I admit, but it isn’t by any means the only story.
So I bought the smaller one, and every time I walk past it or try to place something in it, I have to fight the thought that tells me I made a mistake. I’ve never made a huge decorating mistake. Maybe I’m exaggerating. It’s a midrange mistake. A huge mistake, everyone who walks in the house takes notice, like paint color or couches.
Nevertheless, this was not just a desk. This was my dream. I pictured perfection. I expected perfection. Every time I walk past it, the question poses itself: What now?
I think, I can’t become one of those hoarders who refuse to give anything away or even sell it, even when it occupies space in their life that could be used for more beauty and friendship, companionship and peace.
What now? Do I keep you because you make my heart swoon? Despite knowing that there may be something else more practical out there for me? Or do I grow up and be responsible, find a larger one and use it despite the fact it’s too large for the living space? Passion or Practicality?
This is the classic Little Mermaid- Pocahontas dilemma. Stay in the ocean with your family or start an adventure on land? Marry Kochoum and have a stable life or start an adventure with Captain John Smith?
Do I shut the door on this one?
My Final Decision.
Just as I had spoken the words aloud, I will find another one, I ran my fingers over the grooves of the drawer and they flowed over its curves, I had an idea.
I am going to be expanding my living space shortly, particularly the master bedroom. Tearing down some walls and such. And so! I’ll hold onto this smaller desk, and when I have more space I’ll put the small one in my bedroom. I’ll use it as a sort of elaborate nightstand. I’ll keep only a few curated things in it. I can write on a desk in my room, just like it’s always been in my dreams. Additionally, I’ll have another, more practical desk in the living room. I keep gravitating toward something sleek and modern like a thin white one with Nate Berkus accessories. But I’m a closet messy person. I like my mess hidden away. I like to see only perfection. Modern may just be another dream I’m forming that will disappoint me with its impracticality later. I’m getting hip to my brain’s tricks.
So, this is my life of American excess. And this is probably how every hoarder began the road to amassing their overflowing material possessions. This is a quiet cry for help. If you can think of any better solutions for me, please share. If not, then don’t tell me to send it away! See? A cry for help, but a quiet one. I look forward to hearing from you… or not.
P.S. It’s been suggested that I remove the shelving on the inside to create more surface space, which is okay; however, it doesn’t resolve the utter lack of storage space that it provides.