A guest strolls into my simple abode, their eyes scan to the far corner of the room. As their sock enthralled toes feel the plush carpet, their eyes alight on baskets and yellow button bedecked milk crates filled with horizontally and vertically stacked books. On the top basket the larger books call to the intrigued eye, as Sherlock Holmes and Bob Dylan biographies wink and beg for their spines to be cracked. The Torah and nearly the complete works of Steinbeck sit between Fight Club and Wuthering Heights. Running and Choke are squeezed between two baskets silhouetting my lack of space but desire for the great bohemian appearance. I slide Roots in between Night and This Side of Paradise, as Kunta Kinte joins the eminent cast of bookcase characters. A story as great as the novels themselves display to any viewer who I am and what it is that influences me.
Waves of people crash through the eye of my life leaving pebbles of interest that I am left to dissect and collect. Left to see that I am the mosaic of the people I have met. You may look at my collection of novels and see the aristocrats, the criminals, and the saints that I might have known. You might perceive the Californian hills and the eighteenth century cobblestone I wish to travel. Biographies of Holocaust survivors and 1960s musicians tell of the people I wish to meet and converse with, they could speak of their regrets and deepest secrets.You may also find that my heart clasps around Mr. Darcy of Pride and Prejudice and Lyon Burke unfurled in the pages of Valley of the Dolls. One might notice Charles Dickens scattered throughout. Great Expectations, reclining, slightly dogeared. Left to assume that I identify with Pip and his story of unexpected earnings and loss. It is simple in that I see the small stories in characters reflected in my own. My bookshelf sits in my room only to remain a mirror of the people I have met and the thoughts I choose to pursue.
I recline to view the small collection of spines resting in front of me. The yellow spine of Dharma Bums and the stocky appearance of War and Peace stick out, books that I have yet to read. Discarded clothes lay draping over the highest baskets, nearly covering the titles of Pet Cemetery, Imagine This, and Miss O’Dell. I notice that one sorry wicker basket is slouching at the stress of so much weight. At a glance one might notice my childhood seemingly filled with Harry Potter and the bewitching world of Hogwarts. These are the only childhood novels left to dwell with the others, perhaps this is maturity or most likely a forgotten sense of nostalgia. An abundance of what I have read is contained in this unorthodox place. I sit here contemplating the inevitable; the need for more baskets and boxes. Stepping out into the world and into the pages of society, what jar of interests will strike me next?