I never really post anything of my own but...
I felt like I needed to post this for all of LJ to see, instead of just my English class. It's sort of a non-fiction-memoir-thing, and it's a little over 200 words. Enjoy (or don't)!
A desk lives in my house. It is a mule, strong and sturdy, and it never quails under the weight it holds in its lonely corner. Usually, no one looks twice at it. Solitary it stands, day after day, never making a sound or movement. But it’s bright. The oddly shaped desk is the blue of a baby’s eyes, sparkling with delight.
Once in a while, I’ll add to its burden: a binder, or maybe my purse. The desk never complains, preferring to remain taciturn. Like a weathered stone, my corner desk endures everything in silence, accepting all things in the same stoic fashion.
I sympathize with my desk. I dress it in decorations, like applying makeup for a special occasion. The desk should really be flattered. I admire it, and attempt to mimic its quiet, reserved ways.
We are similar in our habits, the desk tolerates the mountain of abandoned junk as an elephant tolerates small birds, while I shoulder the burden of my friends' dilemmas. The desk and I do this, as far as I know, because we are compelled to. We are servants who enjoy our labors. Neither has a choice, yet we do not resent the responsibility.
Big blue behemoth, sitting in my room. I compare myself to it, but it does a much better job of holding up under pressure. My desk is a symbol of resilience and fortitude.
A desk lives in my house. It is a mule, strong and sturdy, and it never quails under the weight it holds in its lonely corner. Usually, no one looks twice at it. Solitary it stands, day after day, never making a sound or movement. But it’s bright. The oddly shaped desk is the blue of a baby’s eyes, sparkling with delight.
Once in a while, I’ll add to its burden: a binder, or maybe my purse. The desk never complains, preferring to remain taciturn. Like a weathered stone, my corner desk endures everything in silence, accepting all things in the same stoic fashion.
I sympathize with my desk. I dress it in decorations, like applying makeup for a special occasion. The desk should really be flattered. I admire it, and attempt to mimic its quiet, reserved ways.
We are similar in our habits, the desk tolerates the mountain of abandoned junk as an elephant tolerates small birds, while I shoulder the burden of my friends' dilemmas. The desk and I do this, as far as I know, because we are compelled to. We are servants who enjoy our labors. Neither has a choice, yet we do not resent the responsibility.
Big blue behemoth, sitting in my room. I compare myself to it, but it does a much better job of holding up under pressure. My desk is a symbol of resilience and fortitude.