Despite being committed into a self-imposed book buying fast, A and I found ourselves in Foyles yesterday yet again. Bookstores are overwhelming yet calming in equal measure. The former is caused by the sheer amount of books that one will never get to comb through in a lifetime. Every time, I would end up picking up one book, then 3 other books will catch my eye. Exasperated, I would often leave without purchases but with mental notes to look up those books later - when I have cleared my own home bookshelf of of unread books.
On the flip side, there is also a calmness in bookstores. There is a quiet agreement amongst customers and staff to be quieter than usual, allowing others to read and browse in peace. I also find bookstores entrenched with empathy. Writing is a lonely business - one can read in a group, but writing is more often than not, a solitary practice. Writers often remove themselves from the routine of everyday life to finish their work. Just themselves and their thoughts. Thus, writing can also be a lonely place. In my own loneliness when A is away, I gravitate towards books because I can somewhat feel the author's own solitude echoed in between pages. I feel understood by the author, and my isolation acknowledged.
I read for different reasons - sometimes it is to escape mundanity. Sometimes, it is to feed into a curiosity about a specific type of person or subject. But whatever the reason is, there is nothing like being snuggled on a cold winter's day, on a comfortable couch surrounded by pillows, with a cup of tea on one hand and a good book in the other.
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