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.

1 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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