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.

Sketch book

My black book is my work. It is a sketch of letters, of words, of lists to uncover life. It has gone too far in many ways just as it has not yet scratched the surface of what it reveals. Its purpose is to fulfill the emptiness, to carry me through the dry and empty patches of my rides through bone barren patches of life and land. It is also a smile through the floods of fulfillment. It has painted faces of the familiar, reflections of the obscure, it is entirely a secret but it has been through the hands of everyone I have met.

The pictures I draw outline the life around me. A cursive creation submerged in my passion. It notes my attractions, my defeats, my victories, and happenings. A little black string keeps the ends closed, safe from flinging open into naked view, helplessly into the hands of those in silence. The pages thicken with every sheet penned in blue and black ink. It is a parenthesis of poems and prose, the book never closed on the infinite subjects that arise in day to day life. It is my light and my darkness, it faces the difficult just as it approaches life in all its harmony.

The coarse edges around existence are noted and the soft, spoken for. The pages are turned until there are no more lines to continue, until my book is full of inklings and thinking. One by one, from start to finish, the flow of words streams through my sketchbook until it may hold no more sentences, no more observations and it is replaced by the sponge of a newer black book. It will open again when I wish to sift through the river of my thoughts and I wish to swim through from one end to the other, in hopes of understanding this journey through words.

A Little Library

I stumble upon a scene fit for voracious readers and friends of literature. Walking through the student village, a spotless glass pane showcases a world of books to those passing through the little lane. An overcast skyline brings a spring season of snow and chills onto the large window. The roads are covered in ice, the frost still clinging to the roadside. The room, however, is warm and scattered with an abundance of books. I sit upon a small couch intended for students and others who wish to immerse with words. There are papers, articles, and magazines lining the tables and shelves within the small room. Stacks of books outline the little library, sitting thick through the middle of the room and forming great walls of literature.

The endless content of these books is filled in different languages. Finnish, French, and German words are etched across the spines of the hardcovers and paperbacks poking through the shelves. There are more books than space allows with literature spilling onto the old wooden chairs and tabletops. There are hundreds of places and plots to explore within the worlds of this room. The older books with yellowing paper hold together despite the years and hands that have passed over their delicate pages. The books, organized gently by genre, invite readers to fall into the couches. The study room begs a second look from passing bookworms, casting invites upon those wishing reflection and relaxation into their busy souls, to come in from the cold and spend a few minutes away from the outside world.


Pages flicker between fingers. Slowly turned, one after the other, the hands rubbing against paper in the silence of rooms subduing readers. Without bother and unflinching, a captivating story engulfs without the need for thinking past the pages at hand. Black ink against white backdrops, the novels rages through veins until the edges of the book are creased and the story is consumed a word at a time for a perfect picture in the form of a story.

The classics, the greats, the newest and the latest make the endless world of books a journey without a finish. The countless libraries, the small bookshops, the large retailers all contribute a slice to the giant paper pie of voices and experiences. From fiction to biography and poetry, heroes are born, and tales are captured in the grips of the next page and the next scene unraveling faster into the oncoming chapter.

The need to swallow each word without missing a letter is greater in the favorites. The intricacies of the works growing greater with each passing sentence, the small puzzles solved as part of larger collections patched and framed within the hard covers passed between readers.

Moonlight falls upon on my bookshelf. The books swallow the surrounding darkness and the glimmering spines shine titles and authors from years gone by, waiting to be picked up and given a chance.

To Read

Grabbing my favorite book, in my nook of crannies, I indulge my senses to fulfilling sentences from the likes of greats. I cannot wait to crack open another; stories of wives, lives and lovers that hover above the words like mist in the form of sub plots and twists. I cannot resist; just one more page, only another day lying tucked away as a sage absent to reality. The doses of actuality in small amounts, the endless word counts of profundity in book I shall conquer and mount are my treasure.

Reading until the next dawn, like a lost fawn in endless grassland, I feast upon the touches of text, the nature of characters at the behest of themselves. Lining these endless shelves that swell beyond excess, the books of reckless adventure call me to venture within the hard covers. The endless sheets of paper turned over lying between my sheets, my place of sleep sinking deep into fiction. My finger of friction firing through chapters in haste to discover character afflictions and predilections, my conviction to my books is the run on sentence consuming these breaths.