for the love of books

I am one of those who took hold of books at an early age and never let go. I am one who, on rainy days, was found reading with a flashlight under tableclothed kitchen table or makeshift bed-sheet tent. Black words jumping out of white paper illustrated here or there to paint a thousand new words upon the scene...it has always been fascinating. Words so often are inadequate but so relied upon in this world where bare emotions are too exquisite to be allowed flight. And so we unnaturally fumble around like light blinded fools looking for just the right words to express our true unrefined innards. With those words a story is told and a book is born. A book-a glorious thought-inducing collection of words that ripens with time as it becomes age-perfumed and curled-paged. What’s this about “electronic books?” “Electronic imposter” is more like it. Real books have covers, and weight, and pages that can be hand written in or accidentally spilled on; they can sing as the pages are flipped through, and the very best gain an alluring aroma of greatness as they mature with age. It’s late and I’m tired and I’m not sure this will make sense to anyone else, but I can’t sleep so I thought I’d write instead...