Growing up, I was always reading. I went through a book a week when I was reading at my slowest and a book a day when I was reading at my best. Reading at my slowest didn't necessarily mean that the book wasn't as good or that I was lazy. Reading at my slowest meant that I had a ridiculous amount of homework, softball games and practice every day, and that reading was taking over my sleep schedule. Reading at my best meant that I was ignoring all homework, in the middle of a series, begging my mom to take me to Barnes & Noble the second I finished a book to get the next one.
Books were always there for me, an adventure awaiting to take me into any world I was in the mood for. Barnes & Noble was a magical place, the closet leading to Narnia, the portal into any world. I could pick up hundreds of different hardcovers or paperbacks and read the synopsis on the back or peruse the first chapter to see what caught my attention and test out the next journey I wanted to take.
Sometimes it was impossible to choose and I would excitedly wander around Barnes & Noble with a stack of ten books and the promise of finding the perfect adventure. Sometimes I would beeline to the next book of a series that I had been anticipating, something new by one of my favorite authors, or a book I had researched online while waiting for my mom to take me. But even at those times when I knew exactly what I wanted,it was still impossible to just take that one book. It was inevitable that I would sit in my favorite spot just outside of the cafe with a stack making lists of what to get now, what to keep on my to be read list, and what not to get.
After many of these weekly, biweekly, or daily trips, my room became a personal library. My goal was to have my room smell like brand new books like the intoxicating scent that enveloped me every time I opened the doors to Barnes & Noble. I never got to have enough books to make this a reality, but I had enough books to overflow my bookshelf, forcing me to stack books on my dresser, my tv stand, my nightstand, and even the floor. The books surrounded me and I loved each one. I picked them out painstakingly, making sure the books felt perfect in my hand and were in pristine condition.
My room back home was filled with hundreds of kingdoms and it was comforting to be able to pick up any story I was reminiscing about and take on the persona of the main character. Unfortunately, I had to leave my books behind and I've been craving them lately. I've wanted to go back into the world of the comfortable land and journey of the Evermore series, I've wanted the adventure of Busy Monsters, I've wished to reread Still Alice like it was the first time and I didn't remember the impact it had on me.
I miss my books and the promise of adventure and I can't wait to escape back into them when I get the chance.
