Once or twice a year, I dig through my fifteen boxes of books in the garage. Aside from the occasional late night web purchase, these are my most materialistic exercises.
It’s ridiculous that I keep these books.
The enlightened unattached person should discard all these material goods. Nine years in a box is proof that they are unnecessary.
However, I love revisiting all these little gifts (burdens?) from my younger self. Books always carry a physical memory of the moment when they were acquired or when they were read.
Books also carry hope for future knowledge. Mainly a vain hope; I’ve lugged some of these across the continent over two decades, from Berkeley to Houston to Vegas.
One day, when we find our own house, I envision a big bookshelf with all these books in glorious display. Maybe that’s a vain hope too.
But for now, I occasionally rescue a select few from the garage. At least those lucky volumes are a step closer to being read.
Now where can I find time to read?