Kinks

I think if I were an inanimate object, I would be a bookmark. Today I look around my room and I feel like the bookmarks surrounding me really capture my essence. More so than my toiletries, my clothes, the various knick-knacks I've collected, and certainly more so than my books (look at how many of them sit unread or unfinished, pieces of paper or cardboard marking the exact spot where interest gave way to apathy weeks or months ago). I've never really been one to keep photos anyway. If I did you can guess where they would probably end up. Today my bookmarked books remind me of myself: half-finished, they underscore my inability to really follow through on anything significant, perhaps too obsessed with possibilities at the expense of reality. Here, science fiction; there, a biography of Caesar; a French notebook that I never devote enough time to; Spanish vocabulary gathering dust. And then there's the heavy stuff that I don't even know why I keep; I hope it's not just a ruse to impress half-imagined guests. I hope that's not me. Bookmark as fraud.