For the Love of Books

It’s Valentine’s Day, and since my husband-to-be and I are still some 1600 miles apart and both generally loathe the holiday anyways, I figured I’d play around with some of my other loves–such as my love of books, both writing them and reading them.

Because, honestly, who wants a box of chocolate when you can be given a book?

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One year ago, as I walked the brick path around its first bend on my way to class, I saw the trees in crystal clarity. Every leaf was outlined in high-resolution detail. I felt excited. Thankful that I was alive. That I was negative.

But just as quickly all that happiness turned to hatred.

What had I done? How could I have been so stupid? So reckless?

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What I Sing About When I Sing About Love

I have a confession to make: I’m a complete and total sap. I turn to mush in the vicinity of someone I like. All things that make you go “Awww!” fill me with butterflies and rainbows and little puppies rolling in the grass. I love the sentimental–not sentimentality, mind you, but the sentimental–and those possessions I cherish most have the least practical use and the most emotional meaning. I’m impressed by the visual, but overwhelmed by the sensory–touch and sound, smell and taste–and if I can taste you in my breath, I am in love.

I just don’t show it very much. It’s easier around the edges to be sharper, more stoic and solid. There’s a lot inside me I don’t show, and only part of it are vital organs that really need to stay inside. The rest of it bleeds through like ink in any manner of manifestations until, like a blood-warmed bath, it’s all leaked around me and I’m drowning in my own feelings, unable to swim to the surface and save myself.

I don’t show that much either. On the inside, it’s a steady current of chaos. Until I look at it, until I perceive what fragments are there, it’s only a seamless, stable whole. Introspection becomes the bane of my existence, and come today–come this dreaded day of hearts and roses–all my introspection turns in toward love.

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