at one point last semester I strongly considered dropping my English major. But when asked by someone important to me why I loved English in the first place, I instantly reconsidered.
My answer was books. Like all people who have grown up, likes and dislikes change over the years, but there are certain innate qualities that remain constant. There are several of mine, but one is my searing passion for words and books. Interestingly, the books’ content isn’t always my ultimate goal. Often it is the book itself.
If you have known me long at all, you know that old books hold a special place in my heart. Books, in my opinion, have souls. Old books, purchased at thrift stores or garage sales or old books stores, carry with them entire lives. I am not their first owner. In fact, I may not even be the second owner. These books have lived several lifetimes more than me, and they carry with them the wisdom of the ages. They have seen more, experienced more, listened more, and loved and been loved more than I can accomplish in all my years.
Several months ago, I put together a bookshelf—meticulously organized—and when I come home I often just sit. And stare. I just gaze at the millions of years of literature shelved before me. So many hours and hours to write. So many hundreds of different people that have caressed their pages.
It’s awe-inspiring. I sit in wonder. My soul is deeply moved.
It is here, in the shadow of my bookshelf, that I feel at rest and at one with the world. All is well.
One day. When I have a home of my own. I want a room. With a window seat. That is filled with sunlight. And shelves upon shelves of books. Each book chosen specifically by me. Or specifically for me. No room could be more well-loved.
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