They’re stacked atop another. They’re aligned from end to end. They’re left haphazardly on the floor with other messes. They seem bruised and bent, but they’ve remained unread. Books that I’ve amassed from here and there over time but haven’t quite bothered with yet. Though the intention was once there.
Now they lie around as receipts for my intentions. An IOU of sorts. I owe them my time. Yet I amass these receipts as if I would live forever. I keep making hundreds of promises to myself that physically collect as I ignore them. I will not live forever. I will leave these owed intentions behind.
That thought scares me.