“Life isn’t Perfect”
By Sydney Whalen
The store was empty. I was surprised to even think that. Bertram and Burkes was never an empty shop. Customers would constantly weave in and out of here like mice searching for scraps, coming and going with stacks of books in their arms. The reason could be that its Sunday at four in the afternoon, however, Sunday or not, there were always customers.
I shrugged it off and continued to be perched on my stool, skimming my eyes over every page of the book I was reading. The afternoon sunlight bleached all of the books on shelves to pale, gilded versions of themselves and warmed the paper and ink inside the covers so that the smell of unread words hung in the air. Dim, drafty and almost abandoned-feeling, every sudden noise seemed to carry itself, echoing off the sloping wooden beams. The thick doors with stained glass reflected against the dark floorboards, numerous colors swirling and overlapping each other as if paints had been spewed onto the ground.
Looking up at the staircase that led to the second floor, I gazed at the tall shelves that were as high as the ceiling. Armies of books were neatly lined up side-by-side, leather bindings coated with a fine layer of dust and some were sitting brand new, gleaming in glossy new covers.
Quickly, my eyes flickered outside from the two large windows that bordered next to the entrance. Piled upon the dew covered grass, the crusted brown leaves whirled in a circle like a small tornado sweeping the beautiful sidewalks, the mystifying colors of the sun shone onto the pile of glistening leaves. Whistler, BC was the wild life and nature’s beauty of British Columbia. I’ve only been to Vancouver twice and it is an impeccable city, but I find more comfort here then any other place. Home is home and nothing could change that. When you have been born and raised in one specific place, you grow an attachment that will never leave. I have grown a deep connection with Whistler, and even if I move outside of the province, or even outside of the country, I will never in my life forget the memories that I have planted here.
The memories constantly flashed through my mind like lightening, forcing me to grasp onto them like an old teddy bear greeting. I remember the times when I would go for long hikes with my dad. We would be gone for hours on end and mom would have to call dad continuously to make us come back down. Hikes were my adventure, due to all of the animals and natural habitats that grew. On special days we would see deer or eagles, but mostly it was ordinary birds, squirrels and rabbits. Every adventure I would bring my camera and take several pictures of everything that my eye could catch, even if it were grass. I was so fascinated by nature’s beauty and the way it carried itself to be an elegant yet strong world.
Dad was the type of man who blessed nature for their kind ways of sharing their powerful energy to humans. People called him a Tree Hugger but he never cared – people didn’t understand my dad. I remember him telling me a saying that he had learned from reading spiritual books.
They know not what they say.
I always considered it to mean that people are judgmental and do not understand the concept of acceptance – which is a true fact. Nowadays people seem so cynical and driven to become famous and money-making-machines. I, personally, don’t see the value or reason to why it matters so much. Sure, money is money and we all need it to survive, but why must the world be obsessive over something that is just made of paper? Why does money and possessions have to define who we are as people?
These specific questions raptured me furiously as I strained to focus on my reading. Politics and people were a touchy subject to me, especially since I dislike the discussions between religion and government. I have no intention to walk into something that I don’t have interest for. I prefer...