Sitting in the library, no patrons for the last twenty minutes or more, quiet as a tomb, I realized I didn't feel alone. There was a presence, or rather hundreds of presences, that were there pushing against the back of my consciousness, keeping me company. Not in a freaky, ghost library, horror movie way, but as a comforting, caring entity.
I've discovered I do not think of books as things.
They aren't people of course, but they are most defiantly not objects either. They have a non-sentient essence. I often wonder at the fact that other people don't seem to have the same fondness for reading that I do, but now I am seeing that to me they are real, they are friends. I am amazed to discover this about myself.
Now that I am seeing this so clearly, I wonder if this is why growing up I always had books, books, and more books. I didn't have a lonely childhood, (with that many people running around how could you?) but I didn't have an overfull one either. I wonder now how much this view of books helped me in that?
I wonder if anyone else feels this way?
Or if this just proof I am as odd as I knew I was anyway...
LadyAnne
Due to the Smart-aleck-ey comments from the CALVIN gallery, this post has now been edited to submit "an" instead of "a."
Due to the Smart-aleck-ey comments from the CALVIN gallery, this post has now been edited to submit "an" instead of "a."
1 comment:
For what it's worth...if you are odd, this is not the proof. Or...I am too. Hmmm.
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