Dear Books,

Dear Books,

I love you.

I don’t say those words lightly. Usually you would at least need to buy me dinner. But it’s true. I love you.

You provide me with hours of entertainment. You drown out the world.

I need you.

I don’t know when my obsession with you began. You’ve always been there. 

No matter how hard life gets, no matter how much I can’t handle it, I know you’ll be there with a new world, a new love interest, a new story, for me to sink my teeth into.

I own too many books.

… Said no booklover ever.

My bookshelves are overflowing, but I can’t seem to stop buying them. I have 4 bookshelves in my house. Each holds quite a large amount of books, and still I have no room.

What is it about a book that says “buy me”?

Just this weekend I bought at least six books.

I’m not even a fast reader.

The other day I read an article about how many books we can realistically read before we die – a morbid thought, but one that hit home.

Apparently I am going to be able to read about 3000 books with the time I have left. I haven’t counted lately, but I think I am close to closing in on that number of unread books at home.

That means that, if I keep buying books at this rate, I am never going to read all of the books I own.

How depressing.

Somehow, this has not deterred me. It has not slowed me down with my book buying or made me consider getting rid of any of the books I already own.

I’m not sure that it should.

For me, books are not just an entertainment thing. They’re a calming instrument. Put me in a room with books and I instantly feel a little bit calmer. Plus they look pretty and make me look smarter than I am.

I think I own too many books.

But I’ll let you in on a secret…

I. Don’t. Care.