There’s something so beguiling about walking into a bookstore full of bright, shiny works of art in all manner of size, shape and color. That’s why books and the places that they reside in for a while will never completely be eradicated from the human experience. I don’t think so. There’s too much love there for a tangible, magical portal to other realms that you can touch, smell, feel; hold in your hands — whiling away long, lazy summer days completely immersed in somebody’s brilliantly written creation.
God. What a joy. What a sublime pleasure. To escape, even for a bit. The excitement that comes with the release of a book you’ve been waiting for — the energy that accompanies the buzz of chatter at a midnight book release — the longing to find out how, exactly, a beloved author will wrap up a multi-million dollar franchise game-changing masterwork.
Fuck. It’s so good. A room in your home dedicated solely to these magnificent creations; floor to ceiling is nothing but books and beloved knick-knacks collected over the years — cushy armchairs with lovely throw rugs and billowy pillows and windows with blinds that let in the light… I see you.
Your cozy nook away from the world; your sanctuary. Your place of joy, or anguish, or laughter or pain. All of it silently awaiting your choice — where to escape to today? What to immerse myself in; what to learn, to aid me on my journey? The many wondrous options. Revisit a beloved classic for the umpteenth time? Or delve into something new and exciting — the allure of the whodunit that you can’t. Put. Down.
It’s so, so good. I will forever love the books.