I categorize my books alphabetically and by color. Why? It gives me a sense of peace and exuberance. 

The books I’ve had for the last four years are slowly collecting dust yet I read them almost every day.  

Each book holds a different story in my mind than what’s on the page. The memories and scenes lividly displayed in my mind are ever-present. I can probably remember every single detail about every book I’ve read, but the words are more important than the actions. The descriptions transport me to a place a simple word couldn’t. 

A remembrance gets unlocked at the mention of a character or related exploit. More and more, I find myself leaving my books untouched as if they were never mine in the first place. But they are. 

An early evocation of my mom scolding me for reading too much plays in my head sometimes. Now, I coerce myself into finding the time to pick up and read my once prized possessions. 

I would never even consider marking on my books or folding the pages in fear of the words altering at the slightest movement. But, school has turned me into something of another character. The once pristine books are now creased and marked with bright permanent ink.

The words in my books have a hold on my heart. The powerful tone exemplified in a sentence as simple as “You are your best thing” tug at my heart strings. The emotions jump from the page and are engraved into my soul.

The words in my books have a hold on my mind. The chapters race through my mind as I carefully reread each word. When I find a  word or sentence that moves me, I write it down and keep it in a jar. The jar is almost full with words bursting with power.

The words in my books paint pictures only I can see. As the plot pursues, the movie I have created follows. The words that plainly stated an effortless picture of a forest has been altered. I see there are pine trees waiting in the shadows for the sun to touch them again. I see the roots of a single rhododendron—picked over by the ravenous deer basking in the sliver of light peeking through the trees—bare and stripped. 

The bookshelf, haphazardly filled with so many books it would be practically impossible to stack more books upon it,  has become a splash of color in my room. Often overlooked, it sits there waiting for someone to run their hands along each spine and choose their next fantasy.