Holding the Weight of Words

A bookshelf collecting dust to purge allergies is not a unique thing, but rather symbolic. The bookshelf can somehow tell more stories then the books in itself. The books originally queued waiting in order or newest to oldest, favourite to least, colour or author. Now some not even visible, hiding behind the strength of new spines that pile and lay on their backs for that little extra space. Their sides teetering off the edge to peer looks at another world they possibly won't ever touch on the shelf below. The differences of sizes and lengths that show the owners passions and level of motivation over months and years. Folded up bases from being in bags and resting on curled up legs. Pages turned the colour of you cigarette stained ceiling or your mother's make-up from use in the sun or age. Sand that crunches between the paper in movement that had been attempted to shake off after travel. Little useless items surround them. Fiendship bracelets, mugs full of lollipops, receipts, glasses, and even an odd sock that was forgotten just like it's pair. These items make the bookshelf look untidy but in truth they're decoration, they're more to the story that the bookshelf tells. The owner never looks in depth at the bookshelf once they have pecuriously stacked the most recent book on it. The owner does not appreciate the bookshelf for holding all the weight and memories they load up onto it. They do not consider the practicality of a rectangular piece of wood has and how a room would look without one. A bookshelf tells a story of all the stories. My bookshelf tells the story.