I believe my mind is a library,
even I get utterly lost
in the vast expanse of books.
My life is a big turn of events which shapes up who I am in my life. I can’t even start to describe every bit of what changed me to become who I am now. I guess books, are just a huge influence in my life that I am so thankful for.
Every page, every scent of every book that I get to read is somewhat a gateway to somewhere new, somewhere I create my own world at and somehow, it makes everything feel better. In my mind, I have a city of books that I come to visit every so often to make me feel that I’m not alone.
With my books, I feel special in a way that a normal human being can’t give me. Does that sound selfish? I guess not. My world is contained within my reach, and only I can access everything. I tell you, it’s wonderful to have your own world in the palm of your hands, but the books, the stories, tales and whatever written on print that triggers the imagination of your awesome mind is such a wonderful feeling.
I don’t just collect books, I live books. I live for them, I live for good stories to read, so that I can share it with someone if my power worked, they would be sharing it to other people, then to the next. And the feeling, it’s so fulfilling. It’s as if you’re helping the author feel the same thing, of sharing the love of pages, even broken spines, the poetry, simplicity and work of art to other people who hunger beautiful and wonderful stories.
I feel dedicated. Though, I don’t have my own book. I don’t plan on having one, I just want to be a messenger, a time traveler, a creator and master of my own desire. A designer of my world, in my mind, with the stories I keep. The books I take care of, and my very own library that’s as old as I can remember and will carry on until I get old.