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The Room
Author Unknown

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in a room. There were no distinguishing features, save for the one wall covered with small indexcard files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless 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 fliping 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 catalogue system of my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory could not match. A sense of wonder 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 that I 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 the mundane to the outright wierd. "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 Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under my Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer that I'd 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 yeards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed not so much of 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 run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test it's size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at it's detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see thse cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to detroy them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. It's 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 it's slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it.

The title was "People I Have Taught about Allah." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on it's 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.