The room was a mess.
Books piled high on the desk. A sign of the never ending array of things to study, to read, to learn. Books serving different purposes, having different meanings and values but all bought with an intention, a cause.
I glanced at the language books that made up majority of my desk. Korean. A formidable opponent that I had been desperately trying to conquer with no avail. Everything from new words and grammar to novels and comic books, but none quite completing its purpose to my satisfaction.
Near these books were my newest collection, my latest investment. Novels. The way they grasp my attention, coaxing and fueling embers of a fire that I imagined extinguished long ago alarmed me. My hands itched to read more as the pages between the flimsy covers of those books, held secrets to a world beyond me, a world unknown. One that could only be traveled through the voyage of the mind on the ship of imagination.
My eyes snagged on the binded notebooks scattered throughout the room. The tell-tale signs of my failed attempts to get everything just right. My attempts at learning a language that had placed itself just beyond my grasps, the feeble dreams and hopes of writing my own attention gripping novel, and some held the secrets of my pasts and the hopes of my future. The books that held my story were discarded, strewn throughout the room, as a forgotten memory.
It was a mess that reflected my hopes, dreams and goals. A mess that reflected my past, presented my present and projected light on my future.
The room was a mess but it was my mess.