I walk past many faces that are not memorable, and I walk past many door knobs but there is only on that I come to and turn the handle, Room 505, I come here every day of weekday just to sit and experience the desk it the warm sunlight. My desk is in a place where most of the classroom noise is situated, there is talk about books, teachers, and perverted topics that are beyond comprehension, and in the midst of all this is my eye-catching, shimmering, metallic, desk.
My desk is the in the third row from the right; it is not the first in that row, but is the third. I can see everything, the screaming white whiteboard, the teacher’s desk, and even the tissue box in the left hand corner of the classroom. My desk is a chilling color, a color that appeals to my sight as sand on a windy day, and the chair that is attached to the desk is a maroon, but not just any maroon, but one that can make me sick to my stomach if I stare at it long enough, and the metal that binds the desk is a smooth metallic gray.

My desk is a chess piece on a board that is yet to be moved, it symbolizes the existence of me in that one desk, and many other students that come before me and come after me. It keep the rows balanced, after all, not just anyone can sit there, because only I can adapt to the noise and the people around that noise.

It would take me forever to describe all of those that sit in that one row of five, but unfortunately, their personalities are to abstract to describe. But the noise that they
birth is filling; it is a part of the classroom, showing the significance that the teacher stimulates conversation with the lessons that are anew to us.

The noise, it is not just about the topic at hand but about things insignificant to what is important. Their colorful conversation sends chills down my back which drifts me to think about the real meaning of the phrases and ideas arousing in the conversation. I can’t hear the whispers of the details exchanged between the two in front of me, but it is always questioned. I can tell that this desk is a place of conversation, even if the conversation is not between me and them.

Distracting me again, are the noises across the classroom, faceless people that I have no relation to, not as a friend or foe, but just a person with a voice that catches my ear. They speak of a movie that was produced years before my birth, but nothing of importance to the lesson about “detail.”

The desk, my desk, and many others’s desk, are surrounded by the ground that is enveloped by the daunting carpet that is spotted with color of a tacky green. The carpet is not what engrosses me, but rather the effect that the desk’s feet creates on this daunting carpet. The shiny legs of the desk, rims down to the skinny feet that are placed gently on the rugged carpet. But with the weight of a person, the jagged carpet is crumpled into a smooth layer of fluff that binds with the fabric of the previous carpet that existed. Then, if the person shifts, the carpet, changes the placement of the desk, only when this happens will the desk make a harsh imprint on to the carpet.
My desk brings a brightening affect to room, not because of the person that sits in the seat, but because of what is on the desk. Each day a new story unfolds on top of the desk, each describing the previous person’s thoughts. In the left corner of the desk is a math equation, one that stimulates the brain to start to calculate the solution one step at a time.

Though the desk is a notebook full of stories, it is also a place for work. I place my pencils there, on the top, on the sandy beach, neat at first but then into a cluster of utensils. With documents of information, and of pieces of paper leftover from the war between my paper and the binding of my notebook, but it does not fall off the desk with the brush of a hand, but the confetti clings to the static that is created. With repeated brushes and nothing, and finally the sand swallows the paper and I lose sight of it, but stays behind as I move forward.

Once the bell rings a signal of release to the next class, the desk that was once empty as I walked into room 505, is once empty again and it tells the story of my time in that class, frustration. That is clearly portrayed with the eraser bits left on the table, and the anger of the pencil that drilled word through the paper on to the storyboard, but even if years and years pass and that desk wears out, it played a part in the story of a girl that was in that 6th hour of AP Language Arts. But, as of now, if anyone walked up to that desk and looked upon it, they would see nothing but the clear sandy beaches and the
cold maroon seat with the metallic binding that looks like any other desk in the millions, and maybe even billions of copies that have been made, but the only difference is, the environment that surrounded it in room 505. The desk that is surrounded by noises,
conversations, lessons, math equations, and many different types of art, is there to be nothing more than a chess piece that helps the game end in checkmate, that desk, my desk that exists in room 505, always in that warm spotlight.