The Library

A workplace.

A studio. Pop a stain of oaks, dark or just mundane brown.

Cherry wood too much, but not quite blacked down.

I think they would be thick, shelves about nearly an inch thick, with matching dividers to quarter the books apart.

One corner laid bare, open and ready to ensnare me in the latest project. A mendable mat of white and black. And a lazy Suzanne cup to the right, pushed to the far back against a decked windowsill that protrudes two inches and a quarter over said desk. Rows of drawers down to the left, beneath a thick slab of wood, no less than three inches thick. Adorned in handles of bronzed alloys, antiqued and filigree with a marble topper centered across the center mass of the round knob. I'd store little sharp tools, teeth, fangs, and claws, all things dead, and things cold and unliving there.

And to the right of said desk, a squared jig would lay, fill of rolled leathers, and under it would be, a drawer or two of metal and steel, metal cutters for my 5-ton press to the more right, sitting on a large work bench covered in all manner of things. Splitters, skivers, edgers, and some electric machines walled off to their right. A 3D printer, smaller, and a larger. A resin printer encased above them, working or not working diligently. It doesn't matter.

The lighting would be warm, not cool, with a burn yellow, almost orange hue. And the room would stretch on, rectangular, and fitting a door. I could continue on past it, back around full circle to the desk to the left of the book shelves, and a little podium would stand in the center of it all, with the most important books of all. Bright, faded nearly pastel blue engineering books in white letters, mold making too alongside burnt maroon nearly umber welding and brazing books with gold lettering. Another face stacked to the brim with electrical, home and small units, singular devices that execute codes. And so on, and so forth, all things far from ergonomic. An inventor space, darkly lit with brushed fern-muted walls, and a wood flooring covered in carpet to settle my cold withdrawals.

A quiet space. A space that only misses a bed. I don't think I'd ever step out of my tiny little shed. A room in a shop. A room in a house. It's warm, dark, and cozy, and I have no plans to yell or shout. I don't need anyone, no one. Not really. I can write, I can draw, and press keys on my backlit keyboard without feelings scrutinized, or small. No one there to feel like they need to stand tall. Tall over me, angry, and mean. Feeling like I'm threatening their space, when I just need. Peace and quiet, a place to recover from the whirl of it all. My tiny little space, maybe a bit decrepit and small.

So if you ever ask, where my perfect space lies. In a shop. In the woods. In the dark with no other eyes. I'm a solitary creature. I need a lot, but it's worth every bit of thing I produce whether it has a value or gives birth to all wonders of conversations and knitpicks or shames.

I write. I create. I just don't want to be named.