When I find myself in times of trouble, because life is so hard, Mother Mary comes to me. Speaking words of wisdom: there’s a good book to read.It’s weird picking up a book I’ve read and remembering exactly where I was in my life when I read it. One book could have been read during a rough patch in my life and it makes it that much more special because it got me through.Or another book could have been read during an exciting adventure and it means that much more because it carries that adventure around with it.
I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.
I just read a book that I loved so much I couldn’t think or eat or breathe because putting it down physically hurt me. I even told both of my parents all about it, while holding it in my hands, using my index finger as a bookmark because putting an actual bookmark into it would be a waste since I was going to read it again as soon as I caught my breath. I thought that this could be my new favorite book, or at least one of them. I thought about how I would buy a copy and re-read it and highlight it and coo and swoon all over it every few years like it’s the first time.
I love the smell of the book.
I love the fonds, the pages, the letters, the words…
I don’t know what else I love. I just love them. It’s like a piece of me.
Books, man. They’re wild.