At least every other week I am at the library, browsing the massive shelves, slowly opening each book, breathing in the scent of old and new, and knowing, if I lived forever, I would not be able to consume all the knowledge contained within.
Every day I am a receptionist, sitting behind a desk, greeting people, engaging in each conversation, breathing in the stories of real life, knowing, for one moment, each of us is making a difference in the others life.
At least every other week, I soothe my addiction. I pack the books read, race to my car, start the engine and vrooommm to the place where I can get lost, yet know exactly where I am.
Every day, I act the unpaid psychologist, enjoying every encounter with each live book, hearing beautiful stories connecting hearts which create a whole tome of chapters compiled from the past, bound with hope, and shared with love.
At least every other week, I walk the rows of shelves, lined with pages bound between covers whispering, ‘Pick me.’
Every day, I walk with authors, listening to memoirs and biographies, enjoying the hues of color each person showers me with.
A library full of books.
A world full of people.
Amazing, isn’t it, how awesomely similar both are. And how wonderful that the simple interactions of life have not been deleted by technology’s ever insistent push to mechanize everything.
Books bound with knowledge, lessons and insight.
People colored with experience, laughter and beauty.
Irreplaceable and priceless.