my dusty old bookshelf

I hate when people throw out that expression.."closing one chapter of my life and starting a new one." You never really close any chapters of your life. Old chapters open up all the time. Sometimes you go back a few chapters to read that one that resonates within you; each word crying your name.

I can safely say that there are a few chapters and even a few books that I would never read again but not all chapters close. They're always in that book, within reach on that dusty old bookshelf.

Dust is a pollution that accumulates over time. It feels as though certain books collect more dust than others and ultimately pollute the once, dust-free bookshelf. Sometimes you're too caught up and you refrain from dusting off that bookshelf. Thus, more layers accumulate until the books within it are no longer visible-- caught under a thick layer of neglect.

A good book maintains only a small trace of dust, with it's tattered binding, wrinkled yellowing pages, highlighting with hand-written notes in the margins. Your name written inside the cover because you fear it's loss; it could never be replaced by a new book. You invested so much time and have been through a lot together. It's one of those books you read over and over again while the so-so books remain on the shelf covered in thick layers of dust, with their pristine white pages, unaffected and unaffecting.

I appreciate my dusty old bookshelf. Every book within it's wooden frames have factored into my identity, have become a part of me. Each has taught me valuable lessons and ideas that will stick with me from here to eternity. Sometimes I'll go to my bookshelf and caress my books with the tips of my fingers as I walk by. Remembering the joy and pain each book brought to me over the years.

Yes, the detestable books are still on that shelf-- mixed in with the good. I haven't tossed them out. I still look at them and remember certain things about them that have taught me something; even those books have shaped me in ways and though I long to forget, the pain reawakens me. Sometimes when you open up certain books and look on the inside cover, you'll see your name and how your hand writing has changed over the years. You laugh when you see the book from when you first learned cursive and you place it back on the shelf. Toward the end of the bookshelf, there sit several books, which I look forward to reading; they sit there in mint condition anticipating the day I transform them into yellow wrinkly decrepit looking pieces of paper; hoping I will read them until the pages start falling out. If that book remains near and dear to my heart, I will tape the pages back in, I will fix the tattered binding, and I will repair it's brokenness as it has repaired mine.