Rarely, you walk through a bookstore or library with direction. You wander and wonder and discover. It’s a specifically miraculous type of spelunking. You’re a dust jacket wrestling Lewis and Clark of page thumbing. This exploration is best done in pairs. Passing through a bookstore with another is space travel in a submarine time machine. You are the undisputed tag team champions of all worlds. A time will come when you do this with a hand in your own. In this instance, your body sings spring and meadow through every aisle, you are Bradbury beauty and Twain cackle. You are Austen refinement and F. Scott real estate. The two of you bloom more evidently here, among the shelves, than anywhere. You share adventure, more than you can imagine outside of these shelves. Alone, this practice does not lose appeal. The purest love is hardcovered. The most valuable lessons are cartoon colored and Seussian. There is nothing lacking in this place. You will remember the people you watch as you browse, great travelers like yourself. They are archaeologists and teachers and surgeons and superhero astronaut ballerinas, sometimes every one of these things. You are dream walking, un-asleep with these authors. The worn books have eared corners and notes in the margins, here you find the names of every planet discovered within each cover. You roll them on your tongue like a lemon drop, there is a sun in your mouth. You sing through it. A house will be built with these books for all the love you will carry. It can never be too big. This house can live on the moon with a woodstove fueled by stars, underwater in a cave pond on Pangaea beneath triceratops foot paths. This is the privilege of the reader still hungry. The pilot ungrounded. All this magic can build you into goliath supernova at your fingertips, bright in the belly of your imagination, a thick stew, an appetite never satisfied. Discovery, here, is all too easy and most beautifully available. You float through the aisles.
Created: Aug 04, 2012blbest Document Media