The Rough Texture of the Wooden Desk Edge

Dear Delyara, I’ve been running my palm along the raw, splintered underside of this old wooden desk for the last twenty minutes, feeling the knots and the deep grooves where the grain has split apart over the decades. This desk has outlived so many people who sat here before me. It doesn't care about their worries, their tired eyes, or the letters they wrote to their own sanctuaries in the dark. It just holds the weight. Touching that old, stubborn wood made me realize how much energy I waste trying to fight the roughness of my own life, instead of just becoming like the desk—strong enough to let the cold years pass over me without letting the core rot.