It’s weird. Anywhere I go, I find myself surrounded by books. When I moved to Texas and started over, books and magazines started piling on my desk. The same happened in Mississippi. When I got to Charleston, I immediately filled a bookshelf.
What amazes me is that other people aren’t like this. To me, books feel like home. They’re filled with so much knowledge. Someone felt so compelled by what they were doing or thinking that they had to write it into a book.
Yet, when I visit friends, sometimes I don’t see any books. They live their lives without these vessels of information. Somehow they live their lives without the curiosity to know what fills these pages.
The picture above is a bookstore on Ramstein AFB. A few years ago, I flew over to Germany and spent a few days exploring. This bookstore was small but I spent a lot of time sifting through the books.
It’s almost as though books carry physical comfort. When I’m surrounded by them, I feel as though I am with their authors. Somehow, if I read the pages, these people come to life. The struggles they’ve endured become my own. Through their difficulties, I’m able to better understand my own life.
Currently on my shelf: Daring Greatly by Brené Brown
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