The dream library in my ideal future


Mahta Poostizadeh

A picture of me and the people who influenced my love of reading and adventure on my sixteenth birthday.

She glides through the rows and rows of dark wooden shelves. Each one is carrying a plant or bobble and the gift of knowledge, the greatest present: an escape. 

She goes sliding across the width of the room, landing next to the sun. Her hand rises to a shelf, and right away she grabs a doorway to a new realm filled with familiar and well-worn people. Down the rungs she climbs, across the room she dances; her feet fly up to the clouds, and she falls to their earthly counterpart: a fluffy white armchair. 

She sighs and pure joy sings through the air around her, a fire blazes across from her, and the sun slowly climbs down the ladder to join in the comfort. She flicks open the benefaction, and her senses are flooded with the majesty of magic, romance, and danger. Pure bliss envelops her as she is peacefully alone. 

Solidarity is familiar to her; its presence is welcomed by her warm upper appendages. Silence, though, is shunned, as it has no place in the scene of solace. A speaker set on a pleasant pink table next to the overflowing nest of blankets sparks to life as the request for music leaves her lips. She returns to the adventure. 

Silence, though, is shunned, as it has no place in the scene of solace.

Hours later a growl breaks through the serenity. She leaps up and away—stumbling over the many pillows thrown half haphazardly to the rug on the floor—to a cupboard stocked with a wide array of treats ranging from chocolate to salt and vinegar chips. Water is collected and she returns to her cloud, Apollo has long gone and so she says a quick “hello” to Artemis before opening the door and following the path back to the grand affair. 

Eventually, she cannot hold her eyes open any longer and gently lays the perquisite next to the speaker that finally rings silent as the last notes hang suspended in the tranquil air. She wanders to the double oak doors opposite the view of the moon. She makes her way through the labyrinth to a sort of regenerator. Her head hits the pillow, and instead of instant sleep, her mind wanders back to the fantasies she spent hours contemplating. Then, she gets lost in the thoughts of her past as her eyes draw to a close.

As she slides into the realm of sleep, my ears go ringing as my alarm blares. I raise myself only enough to shut off the aggravating sound. I then promptly plop back down and try to capture her picture once more. Five minutes pass and the sound makes it clear no more sleep is to be allowed. I stumble out of the comfort of my bed and throw my blanket to join its brethren in the nest at my bedside. Dark wood forming three shelves reside next to my plain white door, each shelf stuffed with trinkets, adventures, plants, and pictures. Nothing in comparison to her elaborate shelving unit, but my jumping-off point, tiding me over until I finally catch up with her.