I'm surrounded by stuff.
It's highly organized and sorted. Neat boxes and cubbies and shelves to keep like things together. I'm obsessed with organization. I'm obsessed with things.
Like books for example.
Last summer I got three boxes of books out of my attic. I have an antique lawyer bookcase in the guest room filled to the brim, with some stacked on top. There's a bookcase in my room too. Books I've never read. It's two books deep. I'm literally hiding books I haven't cracked behind other books I haven't read.
I went through the boxes. It took a few weeks. Every book had a memory, some good and some bad. I said goodbye to some. Reorganized and returned one big tub to the attic. The unread books still sit. It's hard to say goodbye to the promise of a journey to another world.
Who knows when I'll need that escape? I keep preparing. I don't stop buying books. I sort and re-sort my unread shelves. I like thinking more about the escape than living life.
I've been slowing down from seemingly never-ending plans, the schedule I create for myself so I don't have time to take stock. If you're busy, you can't breathe. You can't look around and tell the facade from the reality.
There was a time for everything, a spot for everything, a shelf for this and a drawer for that. A shelf to stack the books that would interest the person I aspire to be or the person I'm running from being.
I picked up a book from my to-read bookshelf the other day. "Lincoln in the Bardo" I took it to a waiting room. I sobbed through the first chapters. The words about grief tapping into the part of me I try to ignore. The tears soothing my soul as the words opened the wounds. The want and sadness that follows the death of a loved one.
Is this why I leave these books stacked? So I'm not forced to confront an aspect of my life I've quietly organized away into a shelf in my psyche?
I'm digging my way out of my head now. Piece by piece. Maybe I'll find more parts on my bookshelf.
It's highly organized and sorted. Neat boxes and cubbies and shelves to keep like things together. I'm obsessed with organization. I'm obsessed with things.
Like books for example.
Last summer I got three boxes of books out of my attic. I have an antique lawyer bookcase in the guest room filled to the brim, with some stacked on top. There's a bookcase in my room too. Books I've never read. It's two books deep. I'm literally hiding books I haven't cracked behind other books I haven't read.
I went through the boxes. It took a few weeks. Every book had a memory, some good and some bad. I said goodbye to some. Reorganized and returned one big tub to the attic. The unread books still sit. It's hard to say goodbye to the promise of a journey to another world.
Who knows when I'll need that escape? I keep preparing. I don't stop buying books. I sort and re-sort my unread shelves. I like thinking more about the escape than living life.
I've been slowing down from seemingly never-ending plans, the schedule I create for myself so I don't have time to take stock. If you're busy, you can't breathe. You can't look around and tell the facade from the reality.
There was a time for everything, a spot for everything, a shelf for this and a drawer for that. A shelf to stack the books that would interest the person I aspire to be or the person I'm running from being.
I picked up a book from my to-read bookshelf the other day. "Lincoln in the Bardo" I took it to a waiting room. I sobbed through the first chapters. The words about grief tapping into the part of me I try to ignore. The tears soothing my soul as the words opened the wounds. The want and sadness that follows the death of a loved one.
Is this why I leave these books stacked? So I'm not forced to confront an aspect of my life I've quietly organized away into a shelf in my psyche?
I'm digging my way out of my head now. Piece by piece. Maybe I'll find more parts on my bookshelf.