As I pass through the aisles, I could continue to form my blames of my forgetfulness on the modest to adequate lighting in the store. Since the place is absent of music, I can only hear the mild buzz in the background as I leaf through the pages of a book or I am still browsing through the sections of the narrowly spaced shelves of paperback books. This moment of silent browsing gives me a moment to meet the book or books I’m thinking about buying. As I continue to smell, touch, and look through the seemly endless shelves of books, I encounter more areas where there aren’t any lights which makes seeing the book’s binding even more difficult. However, I rest assure that there aren’t any pests around in and on the book shelves – at least I’ve never seen one on my visits to the store.
As I continue to make my causal walk around the shelves and enter through the interconnected rooms of more books, I soon realize that there are more books than there are shelves. Because of the over population of books, I always find popped open brown carton boxes, next to or near the already populated shelves, filled with books waiting for someone to browse through them to see if one would pick them up and give them a new home. Looking at some of the books in box, I can’t help but listen to that little voice inside my head that says, “look at all those written words, filled with ideas, conversations – whether real or imagined, insightful thoughts or commentaries on some subject, or insights of any kind – perhaps a closer truth to human peace, all of which, unfortunately, lie muted and stuffed into that tight, over crowded box;” it would require one with strong patience, a curious mind, some sensitive eyes and with some time to spare, to dig through it as if looking for hidden treasure. Yet digging through the items of old books in the brown box is perhaps only part of the fun. The next part of the fun is actually discovering, or perhaps stumbling would be a better phrase, onto something that hasn’t been viewed since the start of this new century. And maybe, just maybe the person digging through the box will find something that will delight one’s interest enough to buy the book and add it to one’s home collection. And once the book has reached its new home, perhaps the book will re-start a new life of its own as it shares its knowledge with the reader and descending new readers. I suppose, if books can express its own emotions, its ultimate wish would be to seek the attention of the reader, be held gently with warm hands around its binding or by its cover’s ends, and to have a dry comfortable place to reside when its service is not requested.
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