I just want to preface this, I love books. So I fully anticipate posts upon posts about books and my interaction with them. You were warned (but not in a mean way, a totally nice way).
I love love books. There’s nothing that replaces the feel of one in my hand. I think about this as I’ve just completed my second book order this week. To my defense, the first was all (except one) school books I needed AND the second one had the remaining books (less than half) I needed. But there’s something that doesn’t feel like home until I’m settled in.
For people that’s different. For some it’s when they’ve unpacked, when they have a shelf, etc. I did feel more at home when I had a shelf, when I had unpacked, but nothing beats how I feel to open the cabinet and look at the books, both mandatory, for fun, and used. It’s comforting. Like friends sitting on a shelf, out of sight of everyone, my personal secret. They wait for me and they all have a story. Obviously they have their story, but they have our story. We, me and each book, have a story together, our first reading, when I found it, it’s trials, it’s tribulations, it’s travels.
Maybe what I love is that, to me, they’re little parts of myself. They reflect the time and love and me that I’ve poured into them with each read, each trip, and each page turn. They all call me, beckon me, and say ‘Remember when!’.
I’ve picked up each of those books one person, and put them down another. Each of them represents a journey of mine, a transition, a change.