The Empty Spaces

I love the places that hold books. I love meandering within a library or bookshop containing shelves and shelves of books, spread out before me like a vast, bottomless sea. I love that I feel encircled by the writers themselves, my fellow colleagues, my silently declare confidantes. I love the way each aisle is a capsule to other worlds, new thoughts, old ideas. I love the way each book is pressed against the next, linked in a comradeship of thought.

I love the physicality of books. I love turning a page, which marks the progression of understanding. I love handling the aged spines of those written centuries before me. I love fingering the sharp-edged books of modern writers, listening as they relate to me what they have to make of the world. I love thumbing through the chapters, catching the deep scent that I associate with a book. It gives each book its individual character. I love the dusty, musty scent of the old ones; and I love the crisply fresh scent of the pages just off the press.

I love the empty spaces within my books. I love adding to them. I love interacting with them. I could have nothing more to add to some of these works but that which, by the dictates of my own fancy, breathes in and out of me as I whisper the words aloud. I love how the words can become a part of me, how each story, each argument, each confession becomes an addition to who I am. I love that, between those bold printed words, there can be found in quickly pressed ink, my ever-present interaction with the text. I love that.

@ 2011 by Rachel Lowry. All Rights Reserved {photo via: imgwhoop}  

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