A sense of who I am remains submerged; personality buried. I am always surrounded by the books of others, rarely by my own. The house I inhabit, the place I call home, the place that is home, is full of my dad’s books, numbered around 3,000. My own books are mostly in boxes, the majority beneath my bed. I delve rarely as I know not what box has which books. Seeking desired titles can be a fruitless undertaking. Earlier this week I gave it another go ans struck gold. In every box I opened I found volumes that warmed my heart. Interestingly it was the nonfiction, mostly, that struck me. I found amongst other things:

I even found both my copies of Solaris, at long last I may get to read it. I’d bought a second forgetting I had it already, then lost both of them in the packing. Finding books is sort of like finding memories and a little chunk of me has returned.

One thought on “identity

  1. Packed away in boxes, the books, the selves we were and maybe are. Kept precious locked in darkness, not gone, merely in suspension…awaiting

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