I feel old.

Not in a terribly bad way. Ta'keh, in an antique dresser kind of way. I think, were I to go sit in an antique store for a time, someone would tie a lovely parchement tag around my big toe with a scrap of red gauzy ribbon, hang lace gloves and red hats from me, and price me at some extravagant point, so that people would mosey by slowly, ooh, ahh, and toy with my tassels, before sighing with regret at their impovrished state and moving on in a hopeless quest for something more affordable. But they'd pass by again, stare longingly at me, just lounging there, sipping tea perhaps or posing gracefully, looking wonderfully ravaged by time and yet, strangely youthful.

All I ask is a good buffing and a fresh coat of wax every once and a while, and maybe one could use me to display a collection of French glass inkwells, antique goose-feather quills, hand-bound journals so goregous, you'll never write in them for fear of triteness in the face of such beauty.

Now that shall be my new ambition, I think. To be a raven and writing desk for a comely young lady, an aspiring writer or poet, and her favorite movie shall be Legend and her favorite instrument shall be the dulcimer.

<<agé chose>>

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