Every so often, I stare at my bookshelf and contemplate what additions could fill the empty spaces. Nearly every visit to any store attracts me to the book section to see what stories authors beckon to tell through their unflipped pages. Once I find a book that adheres to my particular liking, I’ll investigate it. What does the back of the book say? Do I know that author? What does the inside cover read? After reading a chapter or two, I’ll gleefully bring it to the cashier with intentions to add it to my collection. How perfectly it’ll sit in that empty space.
And there it will remain. Forgotten.
Not every book will be held close to one’s chest, nor will it be stained with tears on particularly sad scenes. Its edges won’t be worn from an anxious climax, and you won’t find multiple bookmarks in its pages. No. This book will be forgotten. Far more adventurous books stand higher on the list to read, I couldn’t be bothered with one that might be only somewhat interesting.
No thought quite strikes a sense of fear in me like this one. If I were to put myself in the book’s place, as I so often do, what loneliness and unfortunate despairs do I foresee? Will anyone find me interesting? Will I make a difference in any way? Will my story be one to tell and admire in years to come? Or will I just be another stack of pages gathering dust particles in the back of a corner bookshelf?
If you think about it, most people only want to be famous because of the fame itself. The thought of everyone knowing your name and your accomplishments is something worth noting. In my case, I would want to do something to make a difference in someone’s life. But could you imagine the determination and dedication I would require to have to obtain something even slightly close to that goal?
Forgotten. I can’t think of a word that quite sends a shiver down my spine like that one. Every syllable spews a poison from the whisperer’s tongue. To be just another grain in the sand, another blade of grass, another number in a crowd. That’s what I fear I’ll become. Lost in the pit of society’s everyday people, and forgotten in the history books my present will write.
It’s not being different that scares me. It’s that of being ordinary. So ordinary, that I get lost in the massive waves of utter simplicity. Nobody can pick me out from among the many fish in the sea. What is one fish to the ocean full of others? Casually swimming against tides of people that are so similar. So mundane compared to the wondrous masterminds of the world who control every aspect of what I see.
This fear of mine, however silly it may sound, truly does steer my life. Notably so, I have consciously made an effort to put that aside and humbly note what differences I have made, no matter how insignificant they may have been. My friends and family, the ones I know and love more than anything, will never forget me. My name and the word “forgotten” will never fit together in their minds.
I need not fear that the world will never know my name or the accomplishments that I have yet to succeed, because my whole world can be categorized as my family and friends mentioned above.
All in all, the dusty book will remain there on my shelf. Forgotten by me. Yet in a store across the country, I’m sure another reader will dive her nose into the pages right away, finally fulfilling its purpose.
