My books line the shelves in orderly fashion, or at least as orderly as they can be until some lean over by the weight of gravity. I don’t have much more room for anymore, and yet I keep on buying, stuffing them in nooks and crannies and piled on the floors in the baskets and tabletops. Some of them are old favorites from childhood, others from when I was in high school and college, and still others that I’ve acquired in more recent years. Some of these I bought years ago and haven’t read (or even finished reading) while others I’ve read but couldn’t quite bring myself to get rid of. I’m a hoarder of books, each one I find a story worth noting, worth remembering for later and trying to get rid of them is like trying to get rid of my own children.
I’m searching for substance within these pages. I’m searching for a reality not quite like my own. These stories lay bare the truth that I couldn’t never discover in real life: they show far more humanity than I’ve ever seen within actual people sometimes. Or maybe it’s because I learned how people should act only to be disappointed by the reality of what is.
I grab for a book and look through the pages. I snuggle in a blanket and put a couple pillows behind my back. I’m not so comfortable I can hide within these stories forever. I’ll see you when I get out on the other side and if not, let these books become my heirloom.