I was finishing up working at my computer and I glanced behind me at my bookshelves. They were beautiful. I had this moment of appreciation and then I got up and went to eat some blackberries and I forgot it.
But then, later that evening when I was thinking of something to do I had this urge that whatever it was, it had to do with books. I went to my parents and I asked them, “What if I explained the plot of a book to you?”. They asked some question that I don’t remember and then I felt I had to explain my reasoning. That was when I started crying. I was mumbling in-between sobs that “My books just looked so beautiful,” and “the cover…” and “I just love them so much.”
I took my parents into my bedroom and put them in front of my bookcase—still crying—and we just stood there for a minute. I picked up one of my favorite books (Dig. by A.S. King is you care to know) and I held it out to my dad because I felt he needed to touch the cover.
I will admit that this episode may have been influenced by other factors, but I think my sobbed praises of books still stand strong.
Books are separate worlds. They offer escape and love. Books cradle me.