8 things lying on my bedroom floor: An experiment with descriptive writing.

Eight things. My floor. They all tell a story. They all say who I am. I love them. The stories I mean.

1) A gorgeous, well-worn soccer ball. The seams are just now loosening. It smells like grass. That ball could tell you the story of what having greatness thrust upon oneself really means. It could teach you passion and anger. It would show you true dedication.

2) The most beautiful acoustic bass guitar. It has the most fascinating shape, and small silver lighting bolts on the fretboard. It was the first guitar I bought. My first love (under God and my father). That guitar would spin you tales of bleeding fingers and thumping bass lines. He’d have you hanging on his every word.

3) A navy blue, wool sweater. It smells like catching a whiff of your best friend’s cologne while he wraps you in a hug you don’t deserve. It’s common, and comfortable. And it is the best with everything. It hides the stains, and stray tears or the occasional nose on sleeve wipe.

4) The best book in the whole world. My NIV Bible sits where it fell this morning when I missed my end table. It is the truth. It is love. And it is all I really need. Simple.

5) The best listener, and helper, and protector from monsters. A small, faded black dog is sprawled comfortably at the seam where my rug meets the dark brown wood on my bedroom floor. I think he was dropped there after my last trip. He would linger in sort of a smoky voice about poetry and the best types of coffee if he could. He would captivate minds, and hold hands. He would be the best.

6) A gaming system from 2004. My old, white Nintendo sits upon a copy of Harry Potter: The Sorcerer’s Stone. Car trips, judo tournaments, mom getting me to shut up at the doctor’s office. Oh yeah, those Mario Bros. can cure some of my worst ADD any day.

7) Old, faded, plaid, stunning. A well used flannel shirt is flopped lovingly at the side of my bed. Comfort. Content. Laziness. Call it what you wish. But deep in those threads are stories of barbecues and rainstorms that I cherish. They hold me together on my worst days. You wear sweats and a T-Shirt. I wear that old flannel.

8.) My school copy of  The Great Gatsby.   The novel, while relatively new to me, has taught me to look beneath the surface of people, and God, and the world. It has showed me that not everyone is who they say they are. And men fall hopelessly in love too sometimes.


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