Here’s to the smell of books.
Here’s to the feel of the pages and the bindings made of cloth or leather.
Here’s to the library shelves and the treasures that can be found within them.
Here’s to an old friend.
I was given this book long ago and as I have aged so has it. As I have evolved so has the personal meaning of the words beneath the cover. I have gazed at it’s face for years.
Here’s to looking up and seeing the labelled spines of books I’ve passed everyday without notice but today they whisper “Read me again. Read me again.”
Here’s to turning yet another page and adding another chapter to the book of things.
The book of things that my computers is trying it’s best to swallow whole;
My Darkroom: Devoured in the 90’s I still miss the smell of the chemicals and the manipulation of light in the darkness.
My Music: Being eaten movement by movement still puts up the good fight but it’s soul is dying by degrees and it’s voice, altered and mechanical.
My Theaters: Whittled down to the size of a tiny screen. Another dark room dying. This one filled with hundreds of strangers all laughing in unison or smiling or crying in the anonymous dark.
And now my books…
Without weight and without substance this tome will dissolve into the constant update of the temporary. The instant.
Dear sir, we have sent the revised version of your favorite book to your reading device. Please re-read it and remember it in it’s current form, free of the passages that we consider inappropriate.
These words, too, will be deleted after you have read them.
I will miss the books most of all.