The Table

A man rested on the table, shifting the pen, or the pen shifting his hand up and down the page. Eventually, the children followed his example and started writing, showing thought, concentration, inspiration perhaps even.

The man wondered how long that table had been there, as it stood almost at the centre of the room, mostly surrounded by tables, ones the students were also leaning upon. He pondered all the other figures who had leaned on this particular rectangular, four-legged table and considered where and when it had been made and who by. Was it as mechanically made by machines and men of the modern world as it looked or had it been carved and shaped with love? It did a valuable job, people never seem to truly appreciate all the things that surround them, but it all makes our days, our times, our lives easier. The table was ugly, but who could truly say what was ugly, beautiful, special and so on?

To consider all the people and their moods and hearts and minds moving near to, around, in contact with this table was immense. The scale of it all. Mankind and the world he has constructed, and the way we operate and use each little thing. All in all, it's just a table, and I would never ask it to be more.