About a Photo-Less Frame on My Writing Table

 

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The elements on a writer’s work table are chosen with great care, perhaps to keep the divine inspiration flowing on days the ink-pot runs dry. And though I may still have a long way to go before I can call myself a writer in the true sense of the word, the teakwood table on which I write has become my place of worship, and the few elements atop it, my deities of inspiration.

There’s a decade-old watercolour painting I call Void; a brass Eiffel Tower with LEDs which was a gift; a notebook for thoughts and memories; a green-and-white-leafed plant named Swann, stolen off Proust’s character from In Search of Lost Time; a graphite sketch of an ex-muse whose dark, melancholy eyes no longer are spears aimed at my chest (but serves a nostalgic purpose); a mirror carefully positioned to reflect my fingers as I handwrite or type; a vintage table lamp; figurine of a girl carrying a book in one hand and fixing her hat with the other; a carved tin box containing scrolls, billets-doux, tiny perfumes, a ring, a wilted rose, and a pocket diary that belonged to someone else; my rose gold laptop on which I’m currently typing; and an empty photo frame. 

Now, about the photo frame, you see, Read more