This is a ‘be jealous of all my old books’ post, you’re welcome.
Truth. When I am at an antique faire or an antique market and I see a pile of old books I have to force myself to put one foot in front of the other and slowly walk, not run, toward them. Even though my eyes are fixed on that stack of books like a drowning man staring at the shore, I ignore my fingers twitching at my side and approach steadily.
Once I reach the shop or stall I totally forget about trying to appear like a normal human. I take comfort in the fact that the owner won’t judge me if I sink to the dusty floor and give myself over to the draw of the books. They would never judge me if there are tears in my eyes when I find an old Tennyson.
There are old friends in each pile and there are new friends whispering hello! There are ageless treasures and there are ones that have been loved until the spine is thin.
I love literature. I love that I can be anywhere in any world in a matter of seconds. That nothing is impossible. Literature is a bridge to that part of our soul that longs for creative freedom and for those few precious moments I can let myself fly.