Indulgence

I have a problem. It is getting worse. It especially gets worse every time I happen to go to DI or Borders. Barnes and Noble is the most terrible, so I suppose it is a good thing that I live in a place where I have to drive for 45 minutes to get to one. Amazon.com has made my problem grow by leaps and bounds, especially when I find one I love on sale for just a penny. I speak of...Books. Have I ever told you how much I love books? I love the smell of books. I love to draw my fingers over the spines of a shelf of books and marvel at the mass of information contained in so many pages. I love the feel of those pages as I draw my finger under the words or flip the corners while I read. I love to pile books up on top of each other on my floor, or next to each other on a shelf so they can talk to each other and entertain one another while I am gone.

I love the way words look on a page, all crunched together just waiting to explode in your mind with a story. I get into fights with books when the author has had the audacity to subject the pages in front of me to a poorly worded story or a flat character who won't form in my mind. I laugh with other authors, imagining that I know just what they were thinking when they wrote that line or created this character. It was probably because I was so shy as a little girl that I began to love books so much. Books don't judge you. They don't criticize you for not being good enough. They don't intimidate you. They invite you. They sit patiently there on a shelf waiting to tell you their story--and not just tell you their story but dress you up, turn you round and round and then drop you right into the middle of their world. You open the first page and they greet you with a cheery "Hi!", a somber nod of the head, or a loving and contemplative "Hello my friend. How glad I am to see you again! It has been too long."

Maybe that's also why I've taken so earnestly to journal writing. Looking over the journals I've filled so far, it's strange to think that they are (though completely mundane) filled with thoughts and feelings and breaths that have come out of my own mind. Maybe keeping a journal is a way that you can become your own friend. You can go back and read the things that have spilled from your own mind and look at it as a friend would. You can say "How exciting for you!," or "How sad! I'm sorry it has been so hard!," and even the occasional "Don't cry Dear! Everything will turn out alright!"

In any case, my friends are waiting.