I trail my fingers down the leather clad spine, ridged and looped with gold thread. The pages are a buttery yellow, smoothed and soft. There’s a clinging delicate scent, of old ink and new desires. The tale remains the same and yet, it makes some laugh, and some it makes sigh.
Ah, old friend. We meet again.
A book is so many things. It can be a best friend, a comforter, a confidant, a safe haven, a shining lighthouse, a dream keeper, a parent, a guide, a reprimand, or a teacher.
A book will never judge. It can be held and read and dog eared on any day of the week, in any outfit, during any season, at any particular moment in time.
Books don’t ask for much. Well, except that you do them justice. Take the time to dive into it, make it come alive, listen when it speaks, strain when it whispers. Take what you want, and it will still be there, waiting to be prised open.
Books have a language. A book will never shout. Well, unless it is an exceptionally thrilling one with an exceptionally moving tale. Books are sensitive creatures, concerned with intricacies and intimate connections. They beckon with grace, never with promiscuity.
A book is a book all the same. You can think what you want, feel how you want around books. They won’t sit a court and judge how you feel. Books support far fetched claims, tall tales, and revolutionary thinking. People can be selfish: they view the world in set ways. Books are kaleidoscopes. They sympathize, and give you new ways of looking at old things.
A book is safe. Unless you read particularly propagandist material, books can act like warm shawls on a freezing night. They reach out, wrap you in the tale, and keep you cocooned. Safe, warm, and content.
Books don’t judge, nag, yell, constrict, or hate.
And sometimes, they’re that much better than people.