I open the door and pass the threshold from the windy cold outside to enter into any book lover's dream, the used bookstore. The cozy, warm atmosphere with the underlying smell of the mustiness of old books is, frankly, a mess. Stacks of books are everywhere, the floor to ceiling bookshelves are packed so tightly with books that they're starting to lean. Books and boxes take up spots on the floor and I tiptoe around the sleeping cat.

I attempt to maneuver myself between two bookshelves and become trapped when the overflow of books makes the space too narrow. I skim the bookshelves, from top to bottom, in awe. How many adventures are awaiting me? How many worlds to live in? What information to feed my curious and ignorant mind? How many forgotten books? Hidden gems?

Some of these books may have the potential to change my life, others might spur me to visit some exotic corner of the world. Some might annoy me, others might make me laugh. As I pass by, I acknowledge old friends, authors, and characters I've come to love.

I also acknowledge ones I have yet to acquaint myself with, D.H. Lawrence and Tolstoy. How their works have outlived generations before me, and will outlive the generations after me, spurs me into deep thought: Will I ever have an impact on the world like them?

The space is quiet except for shuffling footsteps and the occasional book closing. Other people, just like me, in a quiet way, anticipating the potential that surrounds them, the worlds and lives that can be sprung about just by opening a cover. I pick up a book that would make the perfect addition to my overflowing bookshelf. Do I need it? No. Can I resist buying it? Absolutely not.