The Bookshelf

When I was a child, there was a very large bookshelf in my bedroom. It was full of books about art and science and the world. I would display some of my toys in there like trophies, and later, when I discovered music, I would keep my collection of CDs in there too. I saw that bookshelf every day.

This morning I woke up with a strange feeling. I opened my eyes, I saw the daylight behind the closed curtain, and I closed my eyes again. In my mind, I saw the bookshelf from my childhood. It was all there and it was all empty. It was a very large bookshelf full of empty space.

I open my eyes and the city rushes in front of me. There are cars and cellular antennas and everything is moving very fast. My house is on a mountain right by the edge of the city. From here, I can see it all without being submerged in it. Sometimes, I imagine that the city is the ocean and I am the beach, and I feel the waves crashing against me.

I close my eyes again because I want to see the bookshelf. Termites are eating it from the inside, spilling dust around it. I search through my memories and I find the old books, but they are full of blank pages. My old CDs have no tracks on them. And the love letters I kept don’t show any words. I think I know what this means, but I’m not sure.

These days, I only ever look outside. I try to imagine that the hustle of the city is the energy in my heart. But the truth is — and I know this fully — that my heart is empty. Will my heart fill up again over the rest of my days? The waves crashing at the beach keep taking everything away from me.

Tears well up in my eyes and the shining screen of my phone becomes a blur, but it doesn’t matter to me because I know where the letters are on the keyboard. And so, I will continue to write my story. Even if I can’t read the words back through my tears anymore.