The love letter to a letter-writing desk

Proust writes of days in “ A La Recherche du Temps Perdu” and of hopes, of aspirations of bonheur, of happiness and understanding in the company of people, and of the failure of these aspirations to be realized. The shadows of boredom, frustrations, and misperceptions haunting the human company and pushing the narrator farther and farther away from the illusions of grandeur, unity, and of love.

I am back to my old room, the one corner of the world in which I have felt the safest, the most fulfilled, and the most challenged. My letter-writing desk, filled with the books and notes I have compiled over the years and it seems as if the time hasn't passed. I sat here two years ago, troubled and agitated by the thought of the project ahead, and prompted to leave behind whatever I have so persistently struggled for to explore a whole new realm and the bottom line is that I was terrified.

This desk has witnessed me pouring my most earnest enthusiasm and passion into a new language, driven by nothing but the pure delight of opening new linguistic reading territory to the world in which Proust, Balzac, Sandal, and Kundera inscribed their creations, transiting at the same time through the most trusted, unconditional and affectionate friendship with someone whose presence filled my life with bonheur, confidence and granted me the possibility of travel. It was behind the same woods that I worked for hours, teaching, translating, editing, dreaming, and finally plucking up the courage to act on the dream.

Silence still seems to be my most desirable option. This new current is totally untapped in me. I am back to the zone where I prefer the company of words, the piercing torches of ideas, and my desk calmly and modestly furnishes that desire. With S around, I am nourished by a heartwarming affection that doesn't question my back and forth, respects my ever-growing need for privacy, and lets me float.

The ideas lacking senses, the sentences dangling and the thoughts surging forward in a flood-like manner still characterize my writing.

The conversation today left me drained and exhausted. I prefer to stay silent but how could one say silent when challenged to engage in a conversation? How could I balance my communicative side with my isolationist attitude? how am I disappointed with more and more people as I venture forward?

Fascinated by the dance of words as they blur the lines between reality and illusion, fact and fiction! Here, I write of my blurred songs of desire!