MIND LIKE A BOOKSHELF

Florida State University

Four books a week, it used to be. Now I’m lucky if I can find the energy for a few pages. A full bookshelf sits in the corner. But full is too empty a word— it’s overflowing. Manic days buy books that depressed days can’t finish. I color-coordinate, I try judging books by their covers, in the hopes that it will shake loose the inspiration I once had. The wind ruffles pages faster than my fingers can. The books might as well be blank. There’s a heaping pile of books in the corner, spines to me like children in timeout. The bookshelf is just a things-shelf now, like a junk drawer, like a toy box after a child’s grown too old to play. A candle, a lamp, a plant, some pills. These all get more attention than the things for which the shelf was named. There’s an overflowing bookshelf in the corner, and I’m drowning in my desire to read. New books, the hardcover kind that cost extra. Maybe that will get me to read. Sleep, I’m so tired. Maybe that will get me to read. I’ll carry one in my purse, just in case. “Read at night,” Mom suggests. “Read yourself to sleep.” But books are not the sleeping pills I need—they’re not strong enough. I’ll use books as my pillows, let the story seep in. The smell of old pages will stick to my hair, and when I awake I will read.