It is a beautiful bookcase, containing many parallel worlds, and far-flung dreams; secret gardens and haunted hotels; psychological demons and ex-lovers; wonderlands and neverlands. Worlds I can escape to, when this one gets too much.
I admire my bookcase daily. My bed lies along the wall opposite this bookshelf of mine; it is the first thing my dreary eyes fix on when they awake. Eyes that scan each shelf, mentally taking note of what I will read next.
The sorrow of my bookcase is that it holds numerous books unread, several notebooks unmarked by a single pen, and ideas long since forgotten in their infant stages.
It’s a good kind of sorrow though; not too depressing when you think that there are unread books, and blank notebooks because, as it tends to do, life has just got in the way.
Life has stopped me from becoming a complete hermit, spending days locked in my room, churning out pieces of mediocre writing and getting lost in other people’s fantasies. Whilst that might be fun for a day or two, it’s not really living.
And a special photo on this bookshelf reminds me daily, to raise a glass to a new day; to go do some living.