As I sit at my desk and
look into the bookshelves opposite me, all I see are old friends. The
spines of the books that line the shelves have stories, personal
stories that do not always have the same story as the one written
within. There are the places I was when I bought any given book. Or
the places that I read the book, also a question. There are the
people in my life, or formerly in my life, who suggested a given
book. And there are, of course, many books I am yet to read. I
consider the unread books friends too, although we are yet to be
acquainted.
Some books are the
reminders of lovers. Some are the reminders of times long ago when I
was young, or I felt like the world was young. Some books are the
reminders of times when I was lost, or not well. Some are the
reminders of the good times. Books, those vessels of knowledge,
humanity, peace and the divine that cannot be discarded, lost or
otherwise seen as outdated or outmoded.
