My love for books… It’s not like the desire of a sculptor to create beauty, the fascination of a poet for romance or the devotion of a dancer to rhythm. It is simply like the passion of imperfection for perfection.
I love new ideas. A single page of meaningfully written text can have an explosive effect on me. It can take me over completely, offering so many perspectives that mercilessly intrude into the continuous dialogue inside me - a philosophical dialogue so abstract and subconscious that, with time, is becoming more difficult to share even with my conscious self. I wonder if anyone who reads much more than me can possess any less curiosity and awe. I do not know if I represent a section of low intellect beings that get overwhelmed with the most menial thoughts or if the ability to savor the minor ripples on my surface is just a gift of proof to myself of my depth. I am not sure if it matters either way. Books, after all, represent to me not a proud collection, but an infinity of ideas that have the potential to form a whole new universe - one that can hold my consciousness for eternity. Books represent to me a key to overcome the horror of stagnation; a path to ultimate truth.
Recently, though, it has dawned upon me that this obsession of mine seems purely pretentious to some. And obsession is so often judged in black or white. Perhaps, the world isn’t worthy of sharing one’s true self. Or does it matter at all?
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