I go upstairs and I see that the door to my room is open. As I come closer, I see my writing table. It is always the first thing I see. Usually, I try not to look at it. Today, standing in the doorframe, I force myself. ItÂ’s a mess. Or, in the sunlight, a work of art. A few liters of glue poured over the thing and then a few hours for drying and I could donate it to a museum. And call it Mountain of Knowledge, or something. Â–But, that is not what IÂ’m here for.
I sigh and I enter the room. Slowly, I move towards the table. The floor between the door and the table is covered with dirty laundry, books, magazines and other interesting objects, such as full ashtrays, empty bottles of ice-tea and bits and pieces of formerly edible stuff. Taken together, all of it makes up a kind of foothill, gently sloping upwards towards the mountain on my table. Without the aid of a mountain guide I make my way to the edge of the table.
I sigh again and I start to work my way through from top to bottom, from front to back. I place the books on the shelf, file my notes and throw everything else into the bin. Â–No, I take the bin and go downstairs into the kitchen, I empty it, get a wet rag and return. Â–Then I throw everything I donÂ’t need into the bin. With the rag I wipe the dust from the books at the back of the pile. After an hour the table is empty. I take the rag and wipe it clean. Freeing it from dust, the slightly humid rag makes the table smell of wet wood. The sun shines on it and once again I see its pale brown surface, the wormholes, the piece of newer, darker wood in the left corner.
I sigh again, pull up my chair and sit down. I feel the drawer under the table pressing against my thighs from above. I put my hands on the table and feel its warmth. I move my hands a bit, gently touching the surface with my palms. It feels uneven but it is smooth from age and wear.
I sigh again. Now I am ready to write.