Until fourth grade, the centerpiece of my bedroom was a big white bookshelf. It loomed above me and was twice my size. So that I could reach the top shelf, a small purple step-stool rested against the bookshelf. I would pride myself on just how many books I had, as books were forced to squeeze tightly against each other and each shelve overflowed. Essentially though, my bookshelf was like nature—organized chaos. The top shelf was filled with books I would only read once. The second shelf were books that I read in school, in my book club, or were simply calling me to read them. The third shelf housed my favorite books, such as The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe series, and other science fiction books that would take me to worlds that I could only dream about living on. The four shelf held inspirational books such as the Chicken Soup for the Soul series or books that told me how to deal with friendships, school, and growing up. In fifth grade, my mom came up with a theory that the bookshelf in my room attracted dust and therefore made me get sick constantly. Huge mirror-covered closets replaced my bookshelf.
When the bookshelf was gone, I didn’t spend as much time at night reading about other peoples adventures under my covers with a flashlight. Instead, I wrote about my own adventures. Initially, my journal was filled with different stories about aliens and space. As I entered and was traumatized by middle school (the horrors I was always warned about ended up being reality) my journal became my diary. Now in college, I find that when I go home there are certain phrases and words that describe how I am feeling at the moment. I started jotting them down on post-it notes and sticking them on my wall. The mirror-covered closets have been moved across my bedroom, and the post-it notes cover the spot where my bookshelf once stood.