untitled #23

She was rummaging through her drawers, not looking for anything in particular, just looking. Jesus, how much stuff had accumulated over the years. Memorabilia from school years: her journals that were supposed to contain homework and school-related notes but ended up full of stickers and scribbles and doodles and the occasional funny teacher quote; the really good tests, or the weird tests that she had wanted to keep to remember the heated discussions afterwards ("Did you know what the hell was up with that poem? What did you write? We never did that kind of stuff in class before, why would she give us this weird shit for a test??"); favourite pens and pencils that reminded her of a time when she loved glittery pink Hello Kitty items; photos she had taken with her old film camera of a class trip to a disused coal mine.

She sighed. Here, in this room, was most of the evidence of one particular human having been around on this planet for quite a while now. Her eyes were on the book shelf. Wasn't it curious that you could trace a persons entire life back to their deepest childhood if they kept a tidy book shelf? There were all the books with huge letters and short stories and poems and lots of pictures that her five, six, seven year old self had learned to read with, the childrens books her eight, nine, ten year old self had devoured countless times, back when her schedule had allowed for finishing a book and starting it over again, and again if it was really good. There was "Robinson Crusoe" that she had read a million times at thirteen years, fascinated and disturbed by the idea of building a life all alone on an island scavenging from ship wrecks.

There were Goethe, Schiller, Fontane, and the most terrible book by Musil, "The confusions of young Törless", that she had to read for class. There was "Homo Faber" by Max Frisch, a novel she had never had to read but had found it in her sisters school book shelf when she was way too young for it but bored, so she had read it nevertheless, remaining moderately appalled that writing something like that was, apparently, ok in western civilisation. There were books that bore the "remaindered" stamp, great books for just a few bucks because of a random scratch or stain on the cover. Finally, her university books, mostly novels, some that she had read thoroughly for a term paper or exam, some that she had skimmed through only to know what was up for a class. Several books that she had bought years ago but never even opened because there hadn't been time for them. Soon she would have the time, she thought.

Her hands had changed. Slightly bonier, more visible veins, no more bitten fingernails. She would never pick up her beloved "The Thief Lord" with soft, small, rosy hands ever again. Her gaze wandered on and paused in the mirror. She knew that for most people, she still passed for a teenager, with her round face and big eyes, but she knew better. Her skin had become patchy, with prominent dark circles around the eyes, and slight creases on her forehead from raising her eyebrows too much. She stared herself in the eyes, trying to remember if that was how they looked when she was eight years old. "Jesus," she said to herself after a while, "you're gonna stare at the face of a tired, bitter adult in the mirror for the rest of your life."