Sunday, February 5, 2012

I can't change how I feel...

I fly back to RI on Wednesday, and I haven't gotten through nearly as many books as I would have liked. It's less weight to carry back with me... but I guess it'll keep me busy while I'm staying with my sister.

I'm addicted to buying things. Mostly books. I'll even buy a book I already own, just because I can't find it right away or it's currently somewhere else that is not in my hands. I have a bookshelf at home full of books to read, and yet I keep buying more and more books. It's like I can't satisfy this empty feeling in my heart that I will not be able to read all the books I'd like to read in my lifetime, and that makes me extremely sad.

I was thinking about how, the day after I die, anything could happen. The movie I've been waiting for could come to theaters, the book I've been desperately waiting to come out will finally reach bookshelves, and I won't be around for it. It's extremely depressing how deep my thoughts go into how much I will miss when my life hasn't even really begun.

You could say I'm obsessed with books. I like every aspect of them. I like their heaviness, and their formation. I could spend hours just watching book bindings being produced - if that's even possible to watch them doing that. I love the way the pages shlef (yes, I made this word up - it's part onomonopia part ridiculousness) from the right to the left when you finish and move on from page to page. I love the flap cover on hardcover books and how they keep the dust away but they are themselves so fragile and bendable. I love the creativity and original design that goes into each cover design/image and how the font of the title just suits the story so well, or sometimes, so terribly wrong.

I obsess and I hoard books, I don't let others touch books I haven't read yet, and I reserve the right to say, "No, you may not put your grubby heads on my precious novel." These stories, these individual memories, these handheld lifelines, they surround me and make me feel vulnerable, and they comfort me and keep me warm at night. These books are my own, but they are also everyones. What I hold in my hands is a connection to another who also loves the way it feels in their hands when they open to page one, and how fulfilled they feel when they turn the last page at the end.

But why, oh why, are there so many blank pages at the end of books?!

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