I was around eight years old when I first fell in love.
We met in the children’s section of a bookstore and I guess you could say it was love at first sight. A navy blue spine made out of fabric with lettering in white. I read it to myself: “A Series of Unfortunate Events | The Bad Beginning.”
I picked it up off of the shelf and turned it over in my hands to get a look at the cover. What awaited me was like nothing I had seen before — an illustration that took me back in time. Something about it felt vintage and foreboding, something much too important to be in the children’s section of a bookstore, yet there it was.
In that moment, I was filled with wonder and purpose. I hugged the book to my chest, ran over to my mother and begged her to buy it for me.
That was the first day of a love affair that I know will last for the rest of my life. I was thrown into a world where anything was possible, where I could learn new things every day, and where the depths of my soul could be understood by words on paper.
My love and appreciation for books has only grown with time, but the relationship isn’t perfect. Sometimes — rarely, but even so — a book leaves me feeling disappointed. Sometimes life gets hectic and a book that I’m halfway through gets left untouched on my bedside table for a couple of weeks. Sometimes a book is so bad I stop reading halfway through and tell myself I’ll finish it one day (who am I kidding?).
In the end though, I always get back to reading. I’m in love, and I can’t help myself.
Is it ridiculous that I’m talking in this way about books? I don’t think so. Happy Valentine’s Day to all you book lovers.