Spilled coffee on a Carl Jung book that I was reading this morning. Not a good look. Why wouldn’t I spill something on a book like that? It won’t be the only lonely book of mine with a stain. There’s a few books, notebooks, and journals on my shelves with faded splatters of coffee on their pages.
The whole scene of coffee-stained paper sums my lived life in short – busy and messy.
These books are all worn, alongside the stains are marks from a highlighter and messy scribbles from a pen.
My life, the same. Pages of it punctuated with fragmented almost-insights written in short-hand. Spaces where I spilled, dark spots permanently tinting the paper. Loose binding from flipping forward and back. Signs of hyperactive and hurried moments too busy and rushed to take care. Worn out and bent edges.
I used to have an admiration of some sort for the methodically organized minimalist with his huge bookshelf filled with books he’d read quickly and orderly as to not leave a thumbprint or bent page or worn spine.
I like my bookshelf now. It proves life... aware.