The Book

I love the smell of books, both old and new. Each of them has its own story of how it happened to be a book, about the author's aspirations and struggle, about its readers about its place on the shelf. My shelves are all overloaded with books. My books, my mom's books, my grandmother's books, found books, borrowed (never-to-be-returned) books, and even one or two stolen books. I have read most of them but there are still quite many that I hadn't even paid attention to. However, it does not stop me from buying more books or going to the libraries. I'm not a huge fan of libraries. Mostly because I have to return the books. It is very hard if the book has been really good. I have been challenged by my sister to live half a year without buying any new books. So, here I am, in the library. Again. For the third time this month. I just brought back some crime stories and now I crave for something different. For some good fifteen minutes, I wander through the fantasy section, before I stumble upon a magnificent-looking hard-copy with a huge dragon on it. It is extremely thick, and I already know that I will take it home. The surface seems to be real leather, and I kind of expect the dragon to wink. But it doesn't of course and I briefly flip through the pages. As I do so, a small slip of paper falls out and slowly swirls down on the floor. I pick it up and I face some odd writing, that I have never seen before. The letters are drawn with great care and look beautiful. I put it back in the book, close it, and head towards the librarian. It's time to take it home.