2. So I’m participating on this thing called Bloggerstock today, which means I am guest posting on Jenn’s Wanderlu5t blog (I swear her winning is purely coincidence) which is pretty cool because she’s a travel blogger too. Or sort of.
Meanwhile, my blog today is written by the lovely Risha, from You Can Read Me Anything. Risha is also a nomad; much more than I have ever been which makes her guest appearance here more than welcome. I’m very excited to have her here. She currently lives in Manila, Philippines where I’m currently residing (as of yesterday!). This means we will probably meet up soon. When I realized that Risha got assigned to guest post for me I was pretty stoked since I actually knew, and read her blog, rather than having some random blogger I didn’t know about write for me. So you should hop on over and start reading her blog. It’s full of awesomeness and great writing. And even though I say I’m tired of the personal blogging scene, her blog is one of those exceptions for me that just contradicts what I even say.
Call me a desk, if you like. Sometimes, you call me a table. Whatever you like- I am but a receptacle. A dumping ground for your: bag, phone charger, diaries, secret-boxes, wine bottles, lighters, passports, stacked books, thesis copies, chocolate wrappers, bags full of new clothes, an unzipped purse, your open wallet, foreign currency, condoms, a broken ring, sellotape, letters you haven’t posted yet, books you’re referencing, gym schedules, phone numbers, postal addresses, an earring you found on the floor, a hairpin still holding onto a strand of brown…
Sometimes you slump over your propped elbow, sometimes you lean against me with your arms crossed. Sometimes you heft yourself up and sit, your back straight. At times, you prop your feet up. At others, you leave behind your hairbrush and a tube of clear mascara. In the mornings, a cascade of receipts you find in your bag.
Headphones blaring, I can hear you. I can read you as you scribble in your notebooks. I can feel it as you drop a champagne cork into a box of knick knacks. Celebrate.
Postcards and letters that you write, some you receive. Pinned ‘I love Paris’ condoms, a phone buzzing. A framed photo of your best friend that you often touch. A finger to caress. A wine-bottle candle holder. A Chiang glass water bottle from Thailand. A boarding pass from Tokyo-Narita Airport.
A treasure chest full of foreign currency. Little Guatemalan Dolls to tell your secrets to. You write those out and hide them in large boxes full of tears and secret smiles. Segregated books: thesis, work, fun. You spent nights typing out of reference books that lay strewn, pages marked and ink stains on your fingers. Notebooks propped up and not a bit of space to rest your weary head on.
You’d bang your fist against the table sometimes. Or your head in your hands. You hardly ever paint anymore.
Sometimes, I’m pretty.