1 min read

My little addiction

I have a confession to make. (And I doubt you'd be surprised by that.)

I suffer from buying-too-many-books syndrome. No, scratch that. I quite enjoy it.

The only downside is that it's quite impossible to visit a bookstore because no one believes my "5 minutes, I promise, just to check it out" reasoning.

With every book, I bring home something else. A particular memento of that day.

No matter whether it's sci-fi or classics with a dash of romance, my hands hold a tiny piece of memory, a certain spark that caused emotional resonance, a word that spoke to me directly.

And when you visit me, beyond shelves of gorgeous covers, you might read a particular interest of mine or the worlds I love dreaming about. No need to even pick up these books, just look and wonder.

Each of these books is a tiny puzzle piece to my story, to who I am. Each of them is a snapshot of how I felt or where I was on that day I got it. Each of them might be a reason why I thought this today, or why I wrote something else. (And I can say the same about anything else that surrounds me.)

These perceptions and thoughts pop up intuitively, out of the meaning we attach to things. Sometimes, one glance around (be it in your room, or on your social profile) is enough to form a feeling towards a person – or a product.

Why? Because we love to make sense of things. To understand and have an opinion.

Sometimes, it's not one significant content piece that makes or breaks people's impression of you; it's the mix of what you do and say, of how you speak and interact with others, of what's around you and why.