I have an obsession with offices, office furniture and office supplies. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I love the smell of freshly sharpened pencils, even though I don’t even use them. I love pens, and do my best thinking if when I am holding one in my fingers, cigarette style. Twirling it. Chewing on it. I love desk accessories, notepads, and organizational tools. So, today, I had a few minutes to kill, and I found myself wandering around Staples, dreaming of a fun office.

I always wanted a contempo styled minimalist room, with a sleek white table sporting a large screen Apple desktop.  I’d have some sort of egg style chair, and a sculpturally designed bookshelf with all manner of sophisticated books on philosophy and art. Which, given that in this dream world, I am wildly successful, I actually have time to read these things again.

My desk has some sort of adorable lamp from Ikea, a potted bamboo, along with a bust of Rodin’s Thinker, and an inspirational quote paperweight. One wall of the room is a bay window. From the second story (or third, or what the heck, the twenty-third), you can see the city or the lake or the mountains. The windows open into a patio where I take my coffee or tea.

The other walls are painted black with chalkboard paint, but they are bordered by white trim, so as not to be too gloomy. On these I scribble down all manner of notes, ideas, quotes, potential dialogue, or even song lyrics I have stuck in my head.

The carpet is a cream shag, and my bare toes sink to the bottom. Sunlight falls in cascades all around the room, and I open the windows to let in the spring air. At night, cozy lamplight sets the room into a peaceful oasis, a floating sanctuary above the ink darkness of the lake, or the buzz of the city below.

I spend my days in my office, scribbling on my walls, banging away at the keyboard, or scarfing down a midnight pizza delivery while I tirelessly buzz through my latest piece.

But, once the dream is over, I come down and realize, I don’t really even have an office. My desk is my lap, and my chair…well, wherever I park my booty. Which, today happens to be a leather chair in a corner of Starbucks. So, instead, I just give this office to various characters. I guess that’s good enough for now.

I suppose the fantasy office must be earned, in a sense. After all, if you can’t write on the back of a piece of cash register tape in between helping customers, you probably can’t write in your dream office either. Adversity builds character I guess. Oh, but that would be a nice office. One day…one day…