At one point in my life, my posessions, other than clothes, consisted of a roll-up black futon, a ghetto blaster, cd’s, journals, Mexican religious candles and a giant stack of books. Not much else.
The candles were propped on a window sill. The ghetto blaster and cd’s lined another wall and my futon was plopped in the middle of the floor. The wall by my head contained a long stretch of my books lined up against the wall.
I was a bit like Steve Martin in “The Jerk”:
“I don’t need anything. Except this. [picks up an ashtray] And that’s the only thing I need is *this*. I don’t need this or this. Just this ashtray… And this paddle game. – The ashtray and the paddle game and that’s all I need… And this remote control. – The ashtray, the paddle game, and the remote control, and that’s all I need… I don’t need one other thing, not one… “
Okay, Steve Martin kept adding to what he *truly* needed, but you get my point.
Back to my small room and meager belongings:
The books were the first thing I saw upon awakening. Pure joy.
And today, putting my books on new bookshelves fills me with that same joy. And now, as an adult, I can add a special piece of art to that tableau and that makes me even happier. I’m a bookworm and a little bit of an organization nut, so they are all alphabetized in their own bizarre order (the first four shelves left to right are general fiction and then the mystery section starts!)
In addition, I refuse to put a book on the bookshelf until it has been read. My to-be-read pile remains on my nightstand so I still have something to make me happy when I first open my eyes.
Books are my love.
I could never live in a house without books.
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