book sale

I have always loved the smell of books. A scent often scolded for it's lack of perfumed elegance. It is one that brings me a great deal of comfort. It is the smell that sings me to sleep, that asks me about my deepest wanderings, and that has been there through all my days of learning.

Today I breathed it in as I walked down rows of literature for sale. Half off a dollar fifty hardly seemed to do the masterpieces justice. Don't get me wrong, dear friends, I always try my luck at any local used book sale I hear of but today, well, today was different. I saw a sort of injustice as I walked the tattered carpeted floors to the "fiction" section. I saw Genocide, a slaughter of pages. I heard their screams as I browsed over unfamiliar titles and still others only too familiar.
I looked around and saw that I was the only person under the age of 60 in the room. These veterans of book clubs understood the desperation of this unruly situation. I stopped suddenly feeling like a 5 year-old puppy obsessed little girl in the middle of a dog pound. I wanted to save them all, to guarantee each of them that
"Yes, you shall be read again someday! Yes, you will sing another to sleep. Yes, you will teach a college student about the absurdities of the Vietnam war. Yes, you will encourage a young boy to be the captain of a fishing boat. Yes, you will give solace to the depressed. Yes, you will ignite the fires of love between two awe-struck teens."
These are the dreams of books. I stood there in the middle of the hopelessness that was this situation and suddenly understood. We are all books, you and I. We sit waiting, content to be read when the time is right. Content to wait for the perfect reader. One who understands the beloved content they are beholding. While others still have prettier covers. They have many readers. they open themselves up to anyone's eyes. They long for the adoration. Yet still others that shall never be read except by the one who they themselves created the inhabitants. Yet isn't the story all about they author anyway. I shall live my life living to please my author and not my beholder whoever they might be.
I hand 3 dollars to the cashier as I take my treasures. My head dizzy from the sweet elation of aromas and adventurous thoughts. Tonight I will drink deep of these weathered pages. yes, I will always love the smell of books.