room. There were no distinguishing features save for the one wall
covered with small indexcard files. They werelike the ones in
libraries that list titles by author orsubject in alphabetical order.
But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly
endlessly in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew
near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that
read "People I Have Liked". I opened it and began flipping through the
cards. I quickly shut it,shocked to realize that I recognized the
names written on each one.
And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.
This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for
my life.Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and
small, ina detail my memory couldn't match. A sense ofwonder and
curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly
opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet
memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense thatI would
look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.
A file named "Friends" was next to one marked"Friends I Have
Betrayed".The titles ranged from themundane to the outright weird.
"Books I Have Read", "Lies I Have Told","Comfort I Have Given","Jokes
I Have Laughed At".Some were almost hilarious in their exactness:
"Things I've Yelled at My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh
at:"Things I Have Done in MyAnger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My
Breathat My Parents". I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.
Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than
I hoped.
I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could
it be possible that I had the time in my 30 years to write each of
these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed
this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with
my signature.
When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To", I
realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were
packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the
end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of
music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file
represented.
When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts", I felt a chill
runthrough my body. I pulledthe file out only an inch, not willing to
test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed
content. I felt sick to thinkthat such a moment had been recorded.
An almost animal rage broke on me. One thoughtdominated my mind: "No
one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have
to destroy them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked thefile out. Its size
didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took
it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge
a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find
it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly
helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my foreheadagainst
the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.
And then I saw it.
The title bore "People that I Have Taught About Allah". The handle was
brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its
handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my
hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.
And then the tears came. Ibegan to weep. Sobs so deep that the hurt
startedin my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and
cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of itall. The
rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever,
ever know of this room.
I must lock it up and hide the key.
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