A Half-Empty Bookshelf

It feels wrong to move into a place that already has a life of its own. The ecosystem is already in place. I feel like a stranger here. Traditionally a family makes a home, but without a family, this home seems to have come about of its own accord.

As I set my things on the desk and begin to unpack, I notice that I'm not the only stranger in the room. The furniture in the room has grown old together. The desk is covered in tracks from the anxious scrawls of previous students. The paint on the bed's headboard is peeling and the particle board of the nightstand has curled back from years of Florida's humid summers. Yet all the age, rot and creaking floors of the Keating dormitories stand in contrast to an empty bookshelf which sits in the back corner. It has a sleek contemporary feel and its black finish silhouettes it against the white stucco walls. 

I begin to unpack and struggle to close the top drawer which won't go back in straight. I hide my secret stash of Hershey Kisses in the bottom desk drawer. I tell myself I'll only eat one but I don't. As each item finds its place I find the room has memories of its occupants before me. Coffee stains on the desks right corner. A pencil left behind and sharpened nearly to the eraser. Initials scratched in a heart. There is nothing quite like defacing furniture to proclaim your love for E.S.

Finally, I unpack my books. Now a half-empty bookshelf, that is much better. Already I feel like I've made a friend.