I reach over the wooden case holding the countless books I have purchased over the years. I have arranged and rearranged them many times but they are simply the magic of words sprinkled upon papers thick and thin. I dust the shelves often, making sure that nothing settles over my books aside from the gifts of poetry and prose. Absorbing their content, they tend to bring me back to my reality the further I escape from this world. They are my comfort, my arrival, my escape, and my survival. Sometimes, I open a book I have already read and look over the pages. I am dashed with vague memories of stories and scenes. When I am hopeful, I open the books I have yet to read. I flick the pages between my fingers, the smell of fresh papers like a jolt to revive all that may grow dull with time.
Owning books has always been important. I refuse to rid my shelves of the names and titles that have kept me company for years. The books sit in a corner, stacked, layered and approachable. The endless pages wait to be turned and taken in. The books are organized as they should be. This is a pleasant corner in my life.