Confessions of a Love Affair with Books

People who know me know that I love books. I loved browsing through the book section of stores when I was a kid (and I still do). I still remember exploring stories of superheroes and ordinary people who became extraordinary.

When my wife and I started dating, we would grab coffee and stroll through Barnes and Noble or Borders talking about anything we saw and everything that related to it. We'd talk about Shakespeare's poetry, popular books, and the relationship between literature and life. We still do this to this very day.

At home, I have two bookshelves bursting with books of all different genres. (Truth be told, I really need a third one.) I read books like how I listen to music; I make decisions based on what mood I'm in. Sometimes I want to use my imagination and visit somewhere not here. Sometimes I want to learn something new. Other times I want simply to be entertained. I like literature that makes me think, challenges me to see the world differently, make me feel something, or rejuvenates my faith in humanity.

Looking at my collection, I somehow see a reflection of me. On the bottom lie my children's books that I passed down to my son. There are novels from my youth; my favorite ones stand like trophies on the bookshelf. There are plenty of books that I bough but haven't read yet. Like my life, they have stories waiting to be told.

I love books with coffee. I love books with friends, strangers, and stimulating conversations.  I love books with power, deep meaning, and something to say. I just simply love books.

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