The written loom

When I have nothing to say, I don’t get up from the desk, but i chose to stay and look around..

The place where I write does not follow seasons. It can be summer outside, light, heat, brightness, and here, inside, there are still Christmas ornaments. Little decorations that never made it back into a box.. Santa’s elves stay beside me all year long.. Not out of obsession, but out of need. They light the space. They keep me company. Silent witnesses to the days when nothing gets written..

There are still gifts left from Christmas.. 
Not forgotten..
Just.. waiting..

Books that haven’t been opened yet..
Candles that haven’t been lit..
Promises that didn’t expire, they simply shifted in time..

My eyes always return to the books.. That’s where the weight lives..

Some of them are read slowly, almost ceremonially, like Outlander. I insist on not watching the series, not out of stubbornness, but out of respect.. If I haven’t walked through the words first, I don’t want images..

Others are still waiting for their first breath. Yasuke: The African Samurai stands there like a quiet promise. Not urgent. Just certain. One day there will be time for an African samurai and for stories that were never told loudly enough..

There is also The Thursday Widows. It doesn’t shout. It echoes. It’s the kind of book you don’t read when you should, but when your body has space to listen..

Nearby, almost as if in conversation with each other, stands Cousin Bette by Honore De Balzac. I don’t reach for it often. But I like knowing it’s there. Like a fixed point in a room that only changes inwardly..

Next to the books, notebooks..
Some empty. Some half-filled.. Some already lined up neatly, as if they know what awaits them. Others not yet. They’re waiting for a hand, not an idea..

There are letters that haven’t been answered. Not from indifference, but from pain. My thumbs have been protesting for a while now, so I avoid long stretches of handwriting.. Over the past month, I’ve been typing more than I’d like.. Cards that still need to be registered are waiting too.. As if they understand..

In one corner, there are summer shoes. They came into my hands, but they haven’t been polished yet. They don’t bother me.. They don’t rush me. They exist, much like the flowers I was given for my birthday in December.. Gifts of affection.. They still stand proudly there, dried now, almost stiffened in time.. I didn’t throw them away.. They didn’t wither.. They simply changed state..

The space is not disorganized.. It is full..

And the strange thing is, I know exactly where everything is.. As if there’s an inner map.. Not of the room, but of life as it is right now..

A craft studio is not just materials.. It is time, in many forms..

Threads that haven’t yet become book spines..
Paper that hasn’t found its word..
Inks that haven’t touched a voice..
Candles saving light for later..
Books that know their moment will come..

And when I have nothing to say, I sit here.. Among all the things that haven’t happened yet.. And that, in itself, is already something..

Don’t you think?

Tatiana,