Close The Book, Choose Another One
I stared at my bookshelves. A haphazard collection of books from different genres. My eyes skimmed through the titles and I caught myself regretting buying some of them even when I know I shouldn't be. I plucked out a book wedged so deeply among others, one that I read when I was in primary school. My fingers left their mark on the dusty cover, I have no recollection of what the book was about, and after reading the description, I cannot remember why I found that book interesting enough to buy it. I hate my younger self for buying such an expensive book which I don't even want to read. I don't remember whether I used to love it.
It's one of the signs that I've grown up. Another proof that people change.
With a heavy heart, I wipe off the sheen of dust on the books, flipping through the weathered pages, trying to remember at what age did I meet and hold them for the first time. Books are just objects but to put them away, they mean more than that, it's a reminder that time has passed and I'm not bringing them to my future. I would love to read them all over again, to feel again what I felt but I know it wouldn't be the same. My thoughts and opinions have changed and there are more books out there waiting to click with my soul. I can't meet them if I keep reading the same books. We can't move forward if we hover around the same chapter and not go to the next page.
It might be wrong to say I'm moving on without those books because I've read them, and they are part of the little things which made me who I am today, however subtle and insignificant it may be. I'm not mourning over the physical books. I'm not sad to let go. This is me saying goodbye so that I can have more space for new adventures.
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