There’s a wardrobe to Narnia, but I’ve got a bookcase to another world

Those select few that have had the pleasure of seeing my full bookcase will know that every item on there is important to me. Every item has a memory, and has the potential to transport me to another place, another time. There’s nothing particularly special about it really, it’s a plain black three shelf bookcase that we got from someone else, but it holds some of my most prised possessions.

The top of the bookcase has a picture of me and my first best friend before I left South Africa. It’s over eleven years old had has made its way through three different countries, and I’m sure it will sit on another bookcase when this one has served its purpose. Next is a jar with a John Lennon quote that I got for a birthday, and at the end is a box; my happiness kit. It was given to me at Christmas from Alice*, who knows how much I treasure gifts with loads of thought put in (honestly, I’d rather a hand written letter over a new item any day). The happiness kit holds an eraser: to make mistakes disappear, a button: to press in case of panic, a peg: to hold it together when things fall apart, a coin: so you are never completely broke, and marbles: in case you lose yours. The irony of that last one is that there weren’t any in there; I guess she was trying to tell me something.

On the first shelf is my little own memory lane. The first item is a small box that contains pieces of papers with short messages on them. My mum and sister made this up for me when I travelled to Canada at the start of 2011, when I was 15. I was gone for almost a month with only my coach and another diver. Of course I had travelled a lot by myself and been away from home for a couple weeks at a time, but this was the furthest and the longest. Right next to that is a book that still brings tears to my eyes and shows how truly amazing the people in my life are. It was given to me by my close group of friends when I left New Zealand and it contains photos, letters, and short goodbyes from more people than I would’ve thought cared that I was leaving. The book is so full that it doesn’t even close properly, and it just shows how many people’s lives you touch.  After that is my giant mug of tea where Fredrick the garden gnome sits. Propped up against that is a handmade card from a customer at work who gave me some candles to say thankyou for trying to help find some lost papers. Next is what I like to call my fandom corner. There is a photo frame given to me from my friend fish face* (I couldn’t resist) that is painted green and silver in honour of Slytherin and it contains an amazing drawing of Draco Malfoy. Seriously, that girl is so talented it’s crazy. Then there is my little Doctor Who shrine where a pop up TARDIS sits next to a small cyperman. Scattered all across the shelf is nick nacks that range from a stress ball in the shape of a brain (my mother’s idea of a joke) to a post-it pad with every page written on that was given to me by my Macedonian friend, who shall now be called Alexander the Great* (or ATG for short).

The following two shelves are filled with books. And lots of them. From my URL you should already know that I love to read. I will use any excuse to buy a new book. I once convinced myself that because it was a Thursday, and thus almost the end of the week, I should buy a book to read over the weekend. I’m pretty sure it was finished by Saturday morning. The thing is, the written world has always been my escape, cliché I know, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. I think the appeal comes from the fact that it’s not physical. I can be sitting in my room but at the same time be traveling with a character across another continent. Sure, I feel the emotions, but it’s easier somehow. I remember reading a book, Before I Die, I think it was called, and from the title you can tell it’s going to be sad, and when it came to the end I literally sat in one spot for half an hour and wept. Those that know me know I don’t show my emotions, but a book has always had this weird ability to pull those emotions out of me that I’d prefer to hide.

Along with my books, music is another escape. A corner of my shelf has been dubbed ‘The Music Corner’. My collection isn’t as large as I’d like it to be, but it’s slowly growing. I can sit for hours with CD after CD playing and just let the notes wash over me. It always amazes me how music can effect someone. You get those songs that pluck at your heart strings as if they were the ones on a harp, and it truly makes you feel light. I think a main attraction for me, is that I feel safe. The calm I get comes from violin solos, not valium. My heart races with drum lines rather than a side effect from all my meds. My head is filled with caressing sounds of singers instead of the rushing of blood. And as Passenger so eloquently puts it “all I need is a whisper, in a world that only shouts”, well, music is my whisper.

*pseudonyms have been used to keep the privacy of others