I have a confession to make. I hoard books.
Most of the time they end up unread, just stacked on the table, waiting for their return date to come. And I can never have more than six books at a time that is another rule of my library. Oh, how I wish I could fill my shelves and cupboards with these magical objects… But, no… Only three weeks, six books and gone. Each week a new trip to my personal paradise, an hour carefully choosing those perfect creations to read, from classics to contemporaries. Then the life comes in and, in the end, I have not touched a single one of them. And so the circle goes on.
No… I am not a hoarder, I am a book slut. A horrible one, I must stay, as the second base opens only to the chosen ones. But, oh, when it does! Hours and days pass. Time and space around us disappear. Me and the book in the parallel universe, in a magical place that belongs to me. And other books just stay there, on the table or a chair, waiting for their turn, which never comes. Too many works, too many hours of procrastinating.
Yet, that quietness and special aura surrounds my books, which is all I need to be content. And for those three weeks they all are mine, just silently waiting to be finally opened.