Member-only story
BOOKS
Dreaming of Bookshelves
Because Print is Better Than Digital
I’ve never been a bookworm. No one would have ever accused me of that. Prolific in other arenas, perhaps, but not in the realm of reading. I always preferred writing and I liked my own stories because they were immersive. I did read, of course, just not as voraciously, say, as my wife. One day when we were in the garage, I asked her — as I peered through a great many see-through, mega-sized, plastic storage containers — if we had any books from Shakespeare. I figured we might as I tallied in my head the count of Ronin books we must possess.
Each book stacked atop another like sad waffles, floppy crepes of discontent. Out of mind but in plain sight.
I was practically overcome with sadness thinking of all of these orphaned books, seemingly forever cast asunder with no home or master to call theirs. I sat with my shame as the question further impregnated the smoky haze of the air between us, for I knew, I was the reason for this exodus of words. They longed for a home where they could find rigid conformity, pressed neatly against the other — some lucky enough to rest alongside wood — a place where they could each parade their finest fronts, and let their emotions hang on their sleeves…
