There’s nothing like the glow of the morning light drifting into my library. In this calm. I look around to see myself surrounded by books, and it hits me that my love for reading came from my mom, and I am eternally grateful. That love allowed me access so much information, entertainment and knowledge. It gave me new habits, new perspective, and appreciation of different viewpoints. But most of all, it gives me story whether real or made up. It fills in gaps in my life in a way that e-readers, social media and computers have never been able to. Holding a physical book and flipping pages is just so damn satisfying.
I look at my growing pile of unread books. Each time, I go to a bookstore, I cannot help but pick up another book as if to mark that I still go to book stores. Yet there is more to it. This love for reading words has served me for a long time, and it’s something I sometimes forget until I pick up a book. Recently, my focus has been non-fiction and learning new things yet there is not denying the pleasure in reading the latest Stephen King or John Grisham. Just being in a world of imagination. That’s what my library represents to me, and it motivates me to perhaps be some day part of that group as a published writer. Some Day.