Considering all the clothes I have, I figured it would be simpler, as far as the experiment is concerned, to examine my book “collection”.  Not to be a contrarian, but based on the discussion in class, I appear to have a much lesser affinity for books and literature than the others taking this seminar.  Recently, I tidied up my room, essentially cramming unnecessary objects in places where they will be out of the way.  Among those objects, at least for me, were my books.  Now not to get it twisted, I have not yet thrown away, donated, or otherwise disposed of my books, nor do I know if I eventually will.  When I looked at the collection, I discovered the books of my childhood, the some of the first series and books I’d ever read, including Harry Potter and even the works of Shel Silverstein, of whom I was a fan, and still am today.  Those books, ones that are all-time favorites, and ones I would like my children to read, ones with that great level of sentimentality that even my parents (who didn’t read the aforementioned titles) can appreciate, have been moved to a separate bookcase in our “extra room” in the house.  For the most part, the books that remained in my room were kept in a crate placed on top of a dresser, which in hindsight is a little dangerous, as I tried to get them down and it was not a simple task.  And therein lies the rub, since I put the crate up there about a year ago, this was the first time that I actually went to take anything from it.  Immediately I knew that if I adopted the KonMari practice, all the books would go.  I must admit though, when I took the books out of the crate, I became nostalgic and realized why I kept them in the first place.  Many of them are sports related, most heavily based on the Yankees, of whom I have been a huge fan for years, even though my dad is a Mets fan..  Anyway, I had moments where I remembered when I chose to buy the books, or who gave them to me.  Some came to me a long time ago, and others fairly recently.  Two were heavily a part of the beginning of my collegiate life, two books that I actually read for English 101 back in Senior Year of high school.  I remembered my appreciation of these books as I read them, and a lack thereof for those I never got around to reading.  I have long realized that I do not enjoy reading the way many others, like those in the seminar, do.  It’s certainly not something I take pride in, but something I’ve learned to “deal with”.  It’s entirely possible, and in my opinion likely, that I will never again have the compulsion to pick up a book and begin reading, although there have been books that have made me feel so before, and there have certainly been required scholarly materials that have felt glued to my hands.  So my pile on the floor is probably underwhelming and exceptionally modest to some, though to me, the weight of sentimentality outweighs that of the physical weight of my pile.  My after picture is of the crate, empty, fittingly so, as if I were to fully participate in the experiment, at least 90% of those books would no longer be in my possession, and there would be no need for a crate.  I wish that there was, or maybe for a personal bookshelf instead, but alas, I am not a reader, only a collector of things.

A blurry reminder of what once was

Perhaps what the future should be