Too Many Books

I have been told that I have too many books, like I’m some sort of Luddite who should just get a Kindle and be done with it.

But I want to caress the spine of a real book that I can hold to my chest like a lover, memorizing its shapes and contours, inhaling its smell, discovering the secrets of its ink, and tracing my hands along the places I love best.

My books are memories, the scars of my heartbreaks, the sounds of my victories, the containers of my dark imaginings and the flights of fancy of my soul.

My books nourish me in a way that isn’t cheap or easy or neat or forgettable.

So what if books are old-fashioned, big and bulky, demanding space and attention, refusing to silence the dangerous thoughts they contain?

I have too many books and too many dreams and too little patience for those who would try in vain to change me.