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The Trumpet

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The Student News Site of Cass High School

The Trumpet

The Student News Site of Cass High School

The Trumpet

Imaginary Antique Bookstore

Imaginary Antique Bookstore

By Julia Belew

Golden rays of sunlight pour through the high windows that line the walls. The unusually poignant smell of damp memories wafts through the air. Antique books fill the space with stories of former owners. I love the way the air always carries a sense of nostalgia and warmth, worn wood encasing succulents and paint splattered floors that echo off the ceiling, the low hum of Frank Sinatra flows through each aisle. My heart fills with each intake of breath, for I am truly home in my imaginary antique bookstore.

Maybe She exists on a lively street in Paris, charming the passersby with Her eccentric aesthetics. For now, however, She lives within me and is there when I need Her. This is my escape, my nirvana, my paradise. Here I am in total serene peace; I am myself; I have creative freedom; I am happy.

Often times I am overwhelmed by the certainties of reality, the immense anxiety and irrepressible desire to surpass the prepositioned standards placed before me. Societal standards clash against my own unwillingness to conform, and I am left to leave this world behind and step into my bookstore. The troubles of this world melt away as I walk through those heavy mahogany doors and begin to imagine all the worlds stuffed into the small paperbacks.

It may seem sad that my escape is not a real place- a fabrication of an altered reality I have dreamt up- but I would not have it any other way. Anxiety follows me like crashing wave upon crashing wave. When the inevitable anxiety overwhelms me I can smother this feeling with the serenity of Her.

—-

Sitting in class, my leg convulsing, words of Shakespeare floating in my head as I prepare my audition monologue.

“O most wicked speed, to post

With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!”

I violently mouth the poisonous words over and over. Time speeds up and slows all at once. I know my time is almost up. I hear my heart through the fuzz in my ears and I shut my eyes tightly. Suddenly, the space around me is transformed from an enclosed brick room into the still, spacious bookstore.

—-

Of course, She never stays for too long, as I am constantly changing and growing. Perhaps at first I used Her as a safety net – a child’s blanket, but throughout the years, She has become a shoulder to cry on, a face of comfort, a friend. Not only is She there through the hard times, but the good times as well. The days I come home and let the smell of incense burn through the air, watercolor dripping down my sketches, hot tea in my favorite Elvis mug keeping me warm.

She is the feeling of content.