Voices crying from the shelf

I should be banned from bookstores. I really should. I swear it’s not good for me, or at least for my wallet, though I’m sure the booksellers are more than happy to accommodate me. It’s like a black hole that sucks me in anytime I’m within a mile of one. It’s like a beacon that calls to me from my dreary, mundane world, telling me everything will be better once I get a new book to lead me off into new fantasies.

It’s not like I have cash to burn, by any means, but week in and week out I’m back again, searching for another hit.

My bookshelves aren’t taking it too well, either. They’re strained to capacity, bulging in places where I stack books on top of each other to create nonexistent space.

The sad part of all this is that I haven’t read all of them yet. Some of them are calling to me, pleading, “Open my cover. I promise, once you look inside me you won’t turn back until you’ve whipped yourself into a reading frenzy and nothing is left except for a few words of thanks at the end. It won’t hurt. It’s easy, I promise.”

Sometimes their cries go unheard for months, even years as my book collection continues to expand. But then, every once in a while, I remember a little treasure I had shoved away in the top of the closet, waiting for a moment such as this. They’re all waiting for that moment, I’m sure. Otherwise what would life be to a book? Sitting lonely on a shelf, collecting dust and spider webs and who knows what other secrets.

Hmm. . . Maybe I need to rethink the whole buying a new book whenever I fancy and start to consider my book collection as a private bookstore where I can rediscover classics that have been waiting patiently for me all along. That way I won’t have to keep ignoring all those voices crying out to me in the night. I need my sleep, you know.

P.S. I've had to get creative finding places to put them. They're lining my dresser and in every possible crannie in my closet. And yes, I do arrange my shirts according to color. OCD, what can I say?