Writers Nook

When I imagined what my nook would encompass, it came to me in the image of a small jewellery box, the type you get as a child. A wooden rectangle shaped box with the wind up on the back and the tiny padlock on the front. When you opened it, a tiny ballerina would spring up, her reflection beaming in the love heart shaped mirror stuck to the inside of the lid. She would twirl around to the majestic tune that would later in life become the trigger tune for nostalgia. The baby pink felt lined the box and the plastic storm of children’s beads, bangles, bits and bobs filled the brim.

When I walk in to my nook I want to spring up like a ballerina; twirling on my toes to a tune only I can hear, a tune only I can decipher. I want to float around the room wrapping my hands around the jewels of my desire; Wine glass, coffee mug, warm coat, smooth sarong, sharpened pencils, book spines, leather chairs, Egyptian cotton sheets. I want it all within reach of each other. I want to feel hugged and nuzzled by my nook and when the nuzzling becomes clingy I want to step outside into a vast expanse where my lungs can open up to the sea breeze. I want to drag my ballerina ass onto the sand and bury my feet while the salt air settles on my tongue. I’ll sit on the sandy grass outside my nook, lean against the wooden door frame and dress myself in the beads and bangles, bits and bobs that are my surroundings.

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