alas, the wasteful book gluten, i am.

I am not sure what to make of this demented epiphany. I have this exasperated greed for preloved books. Sort of the cadence that sings: I am cultured; I am knowledge hungry; I am literate! This arrogance I wear in thin plastic smirks everytime I make boasts of my exuberant collection. I do not, however, read any of them. I haven't finished a book since high school - yet began my selfish storage after establishing my skewed refusal to drink in the binded forms of ink riddled pages (save the occasional children's picture book). Yet I frequent second hand book stores and charity op shops at least weekly in the hope of purchasing well-versed and purty pages; consequently depriving a willing reader of an enriching opportunity - simply because I think it'd look handsome among the piles of similarly neglected books forlorn on my bedroom floor.

I even have the audacity to say loudly - that I know a good book when I see one. I know it when I fan the pages from front cover to back, inhaling the musky sighs of an eloquent book. And like a cruel new master, I buy them off forgotten shelves to pretty up the humdrum of secluded life where no other lover would chance to find them: in the chaotic labyrinth that is- my hoarded "stuff".

I tell myself I'll read them when I'm older, have more time and/or retire. I hope I do. I'd like to one day do them the justice deserved them, treating them as more than decorative pretties. But all that later. I am young and selfish, yet it hardly matters... because you are too.