The Book

1

I love books. I love the smell of them, the look of them. I love to carry them with me, a comfort blanket. I love to photograph and share them, to spread the joy of them. Most of all, I love their words. I love the millions upon millions, countless, inexhaustible mountains of them, flowing from their pages and working their way to the pleasure points in my brain.

I have filled my home with books. I have coffee tables and bedside table bowing under their weight. I have Instagram worthy piles of anonymous paperbacks, their tattered spines hidden from view. They peep out of my handbags and settle on the arm of my chair. They drop through my letterbox each morning, a fresh nugget of gold to be unwrapped and swooned over.

And then I have my treasures. My special, priceless bookcase. It is filled with only the most beautiful editions. All books are valuable, but the beautiful ones are the most valuable. I have my first edition Wuthering Heights, resting between a Crudens Concordance which was published in 1612, and Shakespeare sits here too, his red leatherbound cover sprinkled with gold. They aren't just vintage editions though, I have new books too. From Barnes & Noble to Penguin Clothbound Classics, they adorn this shelf, they spread their joy.

I read constantly. Eating my breakfast, on the train, as often as possible during work time, whenever I return home in the evening to my nest. I may stay at home more often than others with their breathless, grasping socialising, but I visit worlds they could only dream of. I have been everywhere. I have seen everything. I have known everything. And sometimes, every so often, the story will reach out and it will know me too.