The bookshelf loomed over me, taunting me with a thousand words left unread. It devoured the edges of my soul, a slow tittering nibble of anxiety that loved lurking in the shadows, feasting behind my every thought. One day I’ll clean it. One day, I’ll read that Le Carre, and the Art of War. And that book that I thought used to remind me of you.
There’s a bookshelf in the corner of my room. I look at it with all its books and I ask myself, “why can’t people be this complete?” It seems like we’re all empty. We’re all looking for things to fill that space. We need more books. We need to be complete instead of half full. We’re boring as incompletes.
On a bookshelf one will find books. In these books one will find knowledge, though whether or not it’s useful is up for debate in the person’s psyche. Sometimes people get stuck staring at the bookshelf instead of picking a book up and reading it to see what’s inside. Similarly, some people stare at the whole of life instead of opening the books lying around to see what lies inside.
The bookshelf she owned didn’t house merely the works of Shakespeare or his peers, but a collection of stuffed animals, scores of videogames (most of which she’d never bothered to pop into their machine of choice), and enough glass baubles that simply walking into her room would have seemed– at first glance– a chance to flirt intimately with disaster.
i look at my bookshelf and see all the books on it and think, why haven’t i read any of those? what a waste, but i also think if it wasn’t there my room would feel way too empty, as i grow my bookshelf seems to sometimes grow but also sometimes empty. my grateful bookshelf.
Termites devoured the bookshelf my grandfather gave to me. They sliced it up, grilled it, and served it on the hotdog buns from the refrigerator. Onto these hotdogs they squirted ketchup and mustard and relish. Oh grandfather, if you had known your prized bookshelf was being eaten by wooden hotdog-loving termites, you would have joined them in the feast.
My bookshelves are the archives of dreams and adventures that I can only take with characters that I can only meet while exploring their stories. My bookshelves hide secretes that only I know.
I have a bookshelf in my bedroom. I have one in my living room. The children have one in their bedroom. Each of the bookshelves is full, or near full. Does that stop me from collecting books? Not at all! I LOVE books and to be surrounded by reading material. I would freak out if there wasn’t something to read in my home.
He spent a lot of time organizing and reorganizing the dark red bookshelf in his room. Each book had it’s own place, each trinket it’s own corner. It was the one thing in his bare room that gave it character, a rare thing in a place like that. It told a lot about the kind of person he was.
my bookshelf is in my closet which is scary because not only books are kept there. The shelf is neglected for what it’s purpose really should be. I keep everything on those shelves, and use it as some closet space. I need to read more books! i need more bookshelf!
I love the bookshelves in my office. I love how warm they make the room feel, how much they make me want to curl up in my brown suede chair with a sturdy paperback. Books make me happy and comfort me. I would love to have my own writings contained in them someday.
I opened the wooden door. I wondered where it led. It led to a massive modern library full with bookshelfs bursting with some colourful books and some old, grey and dust covered i couldn’t beleive my eyes! It was my biggest wish come true!
“spiritual astrology” in front of me. “one thousand years of world architecture” to my right being used as a flat surface for the mouse and mouse pad. behind me on the dresser, “eastern body western mind”, the bible, “when you are engulfed in flames, “judas- a biography”, and a max lucado book we found in the parking lot and decided to keep, but haven’t read yet.
bookshelves are obsolete.
There was a time that i lit your bookshelf on fire, watching all of the shitty novels you liked burn. I did it outside, as not to hurt anything else in the house, and to leave the house itself unsinged. It was a victorian house, and it was far too good for the shit you’ve been reading.
Where is the tear in the bookshelf. It tears itself and it becomes itself for books that wait on covers bound in golden string. In between the organs are trinkets from the neighbors.
I had a white whicker bookshelf on next to the door of my bedroom for my entire childhood. I loved the idea of a world that wasnt my own and it all seemed to be a part of the books on the bookshelf. I don’t have that bookshelf anymore, but its weird how an inanimate object can transport you and give you something more interesting than your own life to get lost in.
The bookshelf was littered with old books from my childhood. My eyes lingered over the spines of the books I had spent hours reading as a young girl, and the memories overwhelmed me. The bookshelf meant so much to me than I realized- my true friends, my only friends, were in this room. My heart twisted as I turned to go.
Lined up in rows. Hundreds of books. waiting to be taken. Some waits for weeks. others for years. Just waiting. People pass by day by day. Looking. Never even considering picking them up. Dust building up while they wait. Waiting for that one person who needs what they have inside.
sometimes I feel like I’m climbing a bookshelf, with different stories on each level. Photos, books or letters, they all are different forms of telling my life and speaking my mind to the rest of the world.
i see a bookshelf, it’s high and I’ve yet to read its contents
It’s made of dark oak wood, beautiful.
There’s nothing nicer than a tall bookshelf,
Full of possibilities,
Full of adventures
the bible. judas a biography. when you are engulfed in flames. spiritual astrology. eastern body western mind. one thousand years of world architecture. these are the books on our bookshelf.
it holds lots of things besides books, it can hold belongings such as stuffed animals or picture frames and organize all sorts of small pieces you don’t want to get lost on the floor. If you put something on a bookshelf then obviously you don’t plan on using it soon, but you do plan on using it eventually. you’re simply placing it away for a little while
Only time could make Asher forget about the bookshelf in his father’s bedroom. It never held actual books, only trinkets and old photographs. It acted as a small museum of sorts for them both to muse over on rainy, Sunday mornings. He always was a best friend to his father instead of just a child.
Oh. I want new floor to ceiling bookshelves so BADLY. My husband even told me I could order them and I’m just holding back for some reason, a bit scared of doing everything correctly. A bit scared of such a big purchase. A bit scared of changing things around in the living room. But oh! Shelf space! We need it so much for all those yummy books we can’t resist purchasing.
I don’t have enough bookshelves. Mine are full of old friends. I try to keep them orderly, but they rearrange themselves as though they really were alive. Characters and stories just don’t stay put, you know … neither on the shelf or in the imagination. It’s not in their nature. But the shelf bears it. Rather nicely, too.
I love to read, therefore, I have a ton of books. My bookcase is actually full, and in some spots it is two rows deep. my favorite thing is to look at other peoples bookshelf. you can tell alo
the bookshelf in the libraries are packed full of books that make good readings
you can travel, cook, learn new things, review old things, just be educated
BOOKSHELF: here,our doubting thomas atheist will find this duel nature illusion where it reaches it’s irrevocable apex in the ‘always was always will be’god,and the ‘never can be destroyed’matter.
A place of redemption, of escape, of validation. Where worlds merge and we realize our mortality and what could be through the physical and the nonexistent. Words… And more words… merge to create eternity.
where all the delicious books reside. more than I will ever have the time or inclination to read. but the possibilities are endless. there is so much information and so many wonderful ideas. it’s really about the possibilities!
there was nothing on the bookshelf but pills and drawings and black and white pictures of his childhood. then, the room itself was nothing but a court with animals and the sky above was cloudless but sunny. oh, so sunny indeed.
The mans study was a peaceful serene place. Bookshelves appeared in every corner, with paintings hung from above. These are the artifacts to Lew Wallace’s life, thoughts, imagination, and theory. The collections were various in subject; religion, war plans, science, theory, and medicine. Now these shelves linger with an empty void. To peer into a mans mind, one must visit his study.
Hopelessly, he dusted off the final book resting on the bookshelf. He was so sure that he wasn’t going find it. With out even glancing at the cover, he threw it across the room. “It’s over,” He thought, “I didn’t find it.” In his rage and despair, he threw his most valuable flower vase on the floor. As it shattered, he began to break down into tears. He felt so hopeless. Then he leaned over and wiped off the glass shards off the book. He looked closer and saw the title. This was what he had been looking for. There was still hope.
one word has so much poteintial, where you dont even know what it means, or just dont understand it. One word can be incomplete, with a beginning and an end can make a total difference of a meaning.
The lovely lady in the faint purple summer dress walked around the hosts library, reading the titles of his books, wondering how many of them he had actually read. The handsome, dark haired host surprised her when he walked up and pulled one from the shelf and told her this is the next one he planned to read. The book was written by his favorite author, Larry McMurty and entitled “Moving On”.
i sat there alone, surround in the books of their past. This dark hole in my heart to never be filled. I was left alone. Left to stare blankly at the bookshelf.
Bookshelf? Gosh, what am I supposed to write about a bookshelf? Well, I could talk about all the Hermann Hesse books I’m going to read this summer, which I’m really excited for. I wonder if I should read them all at once or space them out; or I could read about something entirely different, like ponies and dragons and sorcerors (oh my)! I guess bookshelves contain vast stores of knowledge that a computer can’t really replace.
Too many things on my bookshelf: books (of course), DVDs, pottery, magazines, CDs, other junk. If I moved all of these items to spaces specifically designated only for them, I’d have no room for anything else. I guess the cramped and mix-‘n-match bookshelf concept works after all!
A bookshelf, empty. Once it was full, now not so. But it feels better this way. Lighter, cleaner, more flexible. A revolution took place, and all these things were no longer necessary. They cleaned themselves back to other places, other people. But their memories stayed. The happiness, the sadness, it all stayed. That’s part of me, part of us.
The bookshelf loomed over me, taunting me with a thousand words left unread. It devoured the edges of my soul, a slow tittering nibble of anxiety that loved lurking in the shadows, feasting behind my every thought. One day I’ll clean it. One day, I’ll read that Le Carre, and the Art of War. And that book that I thought used to remind me of you.
There’s a bookshelf in the corner of my room. I look at it with all its books and I ask myself, “why can’t people be this complete?” It seems like we’re all empty. We’re all looking for things to fill that space. We need more books. We need to be complete instead of half full. We’re boring as incompletes.
On a bookshelf one will find books. In these books one will find knowledge, though whether or not it’s useful is up for debate in the person’s psyche. Sometimes people get stuck staring at the bookshelf instead of picking a book up and reading it to see what’s inside. Similarly, some people stare at the whole of life instead of opening the books lying around to see what lies inside.
The bookshelf she owned didn’t house merely the works of Shakespeare or his peers, but a collection of stuffed animals, scores of videogames (most of which she’d never bothered to pop into their machine of choice), and enough glass baubles that simply walking into her room would have seemed– at first glance– a chance to flirt intimately with disaster.
i look at my bookshelf and see all the books on it and think, why haven’t i read any of those? what a waste, but i also think if it wasn’t there my room would feel way too empty, as i grow my bookshelf seems to sometimes grow but also sometimes empty. my grateful bookshelf.
Termites devoured the bookshelf my grandfather gave to me. They sliced it up, grilled it, and served it on the hotdog buns from the refrigerator. Onto these hotdogs they squirted ketchup and mustard and relish. Oh grandfather, if you had known your prized bookshelf was being eaten by wooden hotdog-loving termites, you would have joined them in the feast.
My bookshelves are the archives of dreams and adventures that I can only take with characters that I can only meet while exploring their stories. My bookshelves hide secretes that only I know.
I have a bookshelf in my bedroom. I have one in my living room. The children have one in their bedroom. Each of the bookshelves is full, or near full. Does that stop me from collecting books? Not at all! I LOVE books and to be surrounded by reading material. I would freak out if there wasn’t something to read in my home.
He spent a lot of time organizing and reorganizing the dark red bookshelf in his room. Each book had it’s own place, each trinket it’s own corner. It was the one thing in his bare room that gave it character, a rare thing in a place like that. It told a lot about the kind of person he was.
my bookshelf is in my closet which is scary because not only books are kept there. The shelf is neglected for what it’s purpose really should be. I keep everything on those shelves, and use it as some closet space. I need to read more books! i need more bookshelf!
I love the bookshelves in my office. I love how warm they make the room feel, how much they make me want to curl up in my brown suede chair with a sturdy paperback. Books make me happy and comfort me. I would love to have my own writings contained in them someday.
I opened the wooden door. I wondered where it led. It led to a massive modern library full with bookshelfs bursting with some colourful books and some old, grey and dust covered i couldn’t beleive my eyes! It was my biggest wish come true!
“spiritual astrology” in front of me. “one thousand years of world architecture” to my right being used as a flat surface for the mouse and mouse pad. behind me on the dresser, “eastern body western mind”, the bible, “when you are engulfed in flames, “judas- a biography”, and a max lucado book we found in the parking lot and decided to keep, but haven’t read yet.
bookshelves are obsolete.
There was a time that i lit your bookshelf on fire, watching all of the shitty novels you liked burn. I did it outside, as not to hurt anything else in the house, and to leave the house itself unsinged. It was a victorian house, and it was far too good for the shit you’ve been reading.
Where is the tear in the bookshelf. It tears itself and it becomes itself for books that wait on covers bound in golden string. In between the organs are trinkets from the neighbors.
I had a white whicker bookshelf on next to the door of my bedroom for my entire childhood. I loved the idea of a world that wasnt my own and it all seemed to be a part of the books on the bookshelf. I don’t have that bookshelf anymore, but its weird how an inanimate object can transport you and give you something more interesting than your own life to get lost in.
The bookshelf was littered with old books from my childhood. My eyes lingered over the spines of the books I had spent hours reading as a young girl, and the memories overwhelmed me. The bookshelf meant so much to me than I realized- my true friends, my only friends, were in this room. My heart twisted as I turned to go.
Lined up in rows. Hundreds of books. waiting to be taken. Some waits for weeks. others for years. Just waiting. People pass by day by day. Looking. Never even considering picking them up. Dust building up while they wait. Waiting for that one person who needs what they have inside.
sometimes I feel like I’m climbing a bookshelf, with different stories on each level. Photos, books or letters, they all are different forms of telling my life and speaking my mind to the rest of the world.
i see a bookshelf, it’s high and I’ve yet to read its contents
It’s made of dark oak wood, beautiful.
There’s nothing nicer than a tall bookshelf,
Full of possibilities,
Full of adventures
the bible. judas a biography. when you are engulfed in flames. spiritual astrology. eastern body western mind. one thousand years of world architecture. these are the books on our bookshelf.
it holds lots of things besides books, it can hold belongings such as stuffed animals or picture frames and organize all sorts of small pieces you don’t want to get lost on the floor. If you put something on a bookshelf then obviously you don’t plan on using it soon, but you do plan on using it eventually. you’re simply placing it away for a little while
Only time could make Asher forget about the bookshelf in his father’s bedroom. It never held actual books, only trinkets and old photographs. It acted as a small museum of sorts for them both to muse over on rainy, Sunday mornings. He always was a best friend to his father instead of just a child.
Oh. I want new floor to ceiling bookshelves so BADLY. My husband even told me I could order them and I’m just holding back for some reason, a bit scared of doing everything correctly. A bit scared of such a big purchase. A bit scared of changing things around in the living room. But oh! Shelf space! We need it so much for all those yummy books we can’t resist purchasing.
I don’t have enough bookshelves. Mine are full of old friends. I try to keep them orderly, but they rearrange themselves as though they really were alive. Characters and stories just don’t stay put, you know … neither on the shelf or in the imagination. It’s not in their nature. But the shelf bears it. Rather nicely, too.
I love to read, therefore, I have a ton of books. My bookcase is actually full, and in some spots it is two rows deep. my favorite thing is to look at other peoples bookshelf. you can tell alo
the bookshelf in the libraries are packed full of books that make good readings
you can travel, cook, learn new things, review old things, just be educated
BOOKSHELF: here,our doubting thomas atheist will find this duel nature illusion where it reaches it’s irrevocable apex in the ‘always was always will be’god,and the ‘never can be destroyed’matter.
A place of redemption, of escape, of validation. Where worlds merge and we realize our mortality and what could be through the physical and the nonexistent. Words… And more words… merge to create eternity.
where all the delicious books reside. more than I will ever have the time or inclination to read. but the possibilities are endless. there is so much information and so many wonderful ideas. it’s really about the possibilities!
there was nothing on the bookshelf but pills and drawings and black and white pictures of his childhood. then, the room itself was nothing but a court with animals and the sky above was cloudless but sunny. oh, so sunny indeed.
The mans study was a peaceful serene place. Bookshelves appeared in every corner, with paintings hung from above. These are the artifacts to Lew Wallace’s life, thoughts, imagination, and theory. The collections were various in subject; religion, war plans, science, theory, and medicine. Now these shelves linger with an empty void. To peer into a mans mind, one must visit his study.
Hopelessly, he dusted off the final book resting on the bookshelf. He was so sure that he wasn’t going find it. With out even glancing at the cover, he threw it across the room. “It’s over,” He thought, “I didn’t find it.” In his rage and despair, he threw his most valuable flower vase on the floor. As it shattered, he began to break down into tears. He felt so hopeless. Then he leaned over and wiped off the glass shards off the book. He looked closer and saw the title. This was what he had been looking for. There was still hope.
majestic
one word has so much poteintial, where you dont even know what it means, or just dont understand it. One word can be incomplete, with a beginning and an end can make a total difference of a meaning.
The lovely lady in the faint purple summer dress walked around the hosts library, reading the titles of his books, wondering how many of them he had actually read. The handsome, dark haired host surprised her when he walked up and pulled one from the shelf and told her this is the next one he planned to read. The book was written by his favorite author, Larry McMurty and entitled “Moving On”.
i sat there alone, surround in the books of their past. This dark hole in my heart to never be filled. I was left alone. Left to stare blankly at the bookshelf.
Bookshelf? Gosh, what am I supposed to write about a bookshelf? Well, I could talk about all the Hermann Hesse books I’m going to read this summer, which I’m really excited for. I wonder if I should read them all at once or space them out; or I could read about something entirely different, like ponies and dragons and sorcerors (oh my)! I guess bookshelves contain vast stores of knowledge that a computer can’t really replace.
Too many things on my bookshelf: books (of course), DVDs, pottery, magazines, CDs, other junk. If I moved all of these items to spaces specifically designated only for them, I’d have no room for anything else. I guess the cramped and mix-‘n-match bookshelf concept works after all!
A bookshelf, empty. Once it was full, now not so. But it feels better this way. Lighter, cleaner, more flexible. A revolution took place, and all these things were no longer necessary. They cleaned themselves back to other places, other people. But their memories stayed. The happiness, the sadness, it all stayed. That’s part of me, part of us.