The dark envelops the room, yet streaks of light manage to escape its grasp and highlight a dusty scene. Through squinted eyes, the dark room begins to brighten and my eyes begin to adjust. Adjust to a life I left behind, through force. 

A bookshelf leans in the middle of the room like a jenga tower. It is built of books and objects that jut out in odd places, creating a large and jagged structure. I peer my head around the room and decide I can approach the central feature with caution. A patch of light hits something shiny. A square object with an oriental front. The silver in the pattern twinkles as it seeks to grab my attention from the room full of so many wonderful distractions. As I look closer I can see it's a notebook.

This junk shop holds so many treasures of a long forgotten past. A past that has been clawed out of the history books just like our language, our choices and our freedom. This bookshelf, of a past I can just about remember, holds strong but seems so fragile as if one missing piece would demolish it forever. 

The notebook shines so bright now that I have to shield my eyes. My body throbs with the desire to write my own words and make a mark of the past. I reach for the notebook and another glint from what seems like a screen catches the corner of my eye. Suddenly the bookshelf rumbles with a sound loud enough to shake the room and I know I need to do this and I know I need to cherish it.