Last week, seeking refuge from the usual commotion of the schoo library after class — textbook-snatching eighth-graders, noisy freshmen blasting “Gangnam Style” on the three available computers, giggling couples frolicking to and fro — I retreated into the musty bookshelves while anxiously awaiting my ride home.
After an hour of quiet productivity, I raised my head from my nearly finished notes on the Byzantine Empire and spotted The Works of T.S. Eliot on a shelf nearby. Seemingly out of its own accord, my hand reached out to tug the grubby book that was sandwiched uncomfortably between its dejected brothers.
I wondered when these yellowed pages were last turned; the dust thickly blanketing the glum, crooked line of books hinted that it could have been years ago.
I imagined when this book was in the prime of its life, freshly printed and placed into the hands of some excited, faceless person. Its pages must have been enthusiastically explored, splashed with spaghetti sauce, dog-eared and annotated until one day it was donated to the local high school, stuffed into an eternal resting place on cold metal shelves, left to gather dust.
I don’t think anyone would ever like to be overlooked like that, fading in the infinite rows of shelves in some vast room, jammed beside so many other worn-out souls. We want to be consulted, respected, always of some use, to leave some imprint on society, be remembered in some way or another. If the supposedly timeless classics, suddenly deemed arbitrary and worthless, are discarded without a second glance, then what are we to do? It seems that I should not expect anything from myself; to even think of achieving lasting greatness must be pointless. After all, I will certainly never amount to the genius that created The Waste Landand The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock; even that was forgotten merely half a century after it was first discovered.
Life is fleeting, gone in the blink of an eye. All our ordeals, achievements and troubles seem so incredibly important, until we step back and look at the larger picture. So it is easy to convince ourselves of our uselessness, to sit back and watch as others engage in the futile struggle to make a difference in the world.
But maybe the very fact that we have so little time means that we should strive to live our lives to the fullest. We should seize any opportunities that come to pass, hurriedly cherish every second and try our hardest to contribute to all that we can.
Even then, my accomplishments may never be mentioned by admiring scholars, never remembered for generations to come. Yet, if, by chance, the words on my spine ever catch the attention of someone in the future, if anyone ever opens my book and peruses its pages, I hope that the faint whispering of my voice from the past will at least have something good to say.