The Table That Thinks It’s a Stage

I don’t set the table anymore. I *compose* it. Not always intentionally, mind you—I’m not running around with moodboards for brunch. But somehow, even a simple breakfast ends up looking like a tiny art installation. A napkin here. A spoon at an angle. One flower I didn’t mean to pick.

It’s not about impressing anyone. Half the time, it’s just me and a half-read book. But I’ve noticed that flat surfaces ask to be styled. Kitchen counters. Nightstands. The top of the toilet tank. These little platforms are begging for attention—like they know they could be more than just functional.

It might be a leftover from my art school days, or maybe it’s just the part of me that can’t leave a candle uncentered. But I’ve come to enjoy it—the ritual of setting a space, even for no one. Especially for no one. It’s a way of telling myself: you live here. Make it mean something.

So yes, maybe my bookshelf looks like it’s auditioning for a gallery. And maybe the coffee table has opinions. But honestly? They probably do. And I’m just here to help them shine.