A/N: I'M BACK FROM MY ONE MONTH HIATUS!!! also i'm tired and sleepy like deadpan-sighing kind of sleepy so this is kind of short!! ... and about desks so uh
The painter's desk is littered with pieces of crumpled-up paper, and short stubs of pencils are tossed around carelessly. The desk is covered in spidery webs of colour, filling up scratches; mistakes from pressing on paper too hard. Paintbrushes of all sizes stick out from a mug, and that's the only way one could tell it apart from the coffee mug; they're both murky brown because she's trying to get the colour of Earth right. Or maybe it's the wrong mug after all. A few works hang on to wooden pegs, on taut string that go from one end of the room to another; her proudest masterpieces. The edge of the table is covered in stripes and swirls of rainbow, that she casually paints over yet again when she doesn't dare how to fill her canvas, not yet anyway.
The architect's desk is messy, in an organised way somehow, much like the architect himself. Rolls and rolls of blueprints and rough sketches sit on the slanted table, and rulers and measuring tape tossed at one side. Pencil shavings are thrown to the wastebasket, only to miss it by a few inches. It looks like just lines and lines on grid paper, but it's the careful calculation of it that's the beauty. The architect himself is hunched over an open blueprint, gingerly tucking his pencil behind his ear, ready to inspect yet another plan; he winces from stubbing his toe on the table leg, made of steel beams that would tower over the city too, if he completes this one, for once. Mini models of his dreams are enclosed in small tanks; they sit against the wall, and look like mini kingdoms for fishes.
The explorer's desk - it's barely a desk; more of a stand for maps. Atlases lie everywhere; wild circling of countries and places and little notes scribbled beside. A giant world map hangs on the wall, and it's covered in pushpins; the red ones are unvisited territories, and the white are places to go, one more time. And apart from all those maps, it also has - everything: ships in bottles, handful of coins from practically everywhere, a lover's note from a whirlwind romance; but what a tragic story that was. A small black journal lies above the heap. It's worn and torn at the corners, and its pages are yellowed and creased, but the he keeps it anyway - it has more worth than it seems.
The writer's desk is chaos. Ripped pages from her notebook lie everywhere, uncreased albeit, but scores and slashes of pen ink are all over them. Slips of post-its hang onto the walls haphazardly, scribbled with quotes, ideas, thought in the heat of a moment, and books - dozens of books are arranged neatly by the side, because the bookshelf is too small to hold everything. Splotches of paint lie on a paper filled with rough shapes; trying to paint out what's on her mind because writing them out is way too hard, but obviously that doesn't work. A notebook stands out however, an invisible barrier from all this mess, and a single pen lies on the untouched page. Maybe I should clear this up, the writer thinks, thoughts can't flow when things are in a mess. Everything is hastily reorganised, and at last, the pen touches the paper, gliding through it letter after letter, till words are finally strung together.
