nights spent studying in the library, dozens of books piled on the desk before you
lingering in your favorite bookstore
debating with friends about your favorite authors
old books with faded bindings and handwritten notes in the margins
memorizing your favorite passages to recite back to yourself
overfilled bookshelves, volumes stacked on the floor by your bed
scribbling notes to yourself late at night, then trying to decipher them in the morning
beautiful handwriting scrawled across the page
worn out copies of your favorite books
wishing you could resurrect long-dead authors and poets
ribbon bookmarks tucked between pages
quotes by your favorite authors written on your walls
libraries with bookshelves that tower to the ceiling, books as far as the eye can see
carrying a book with you everywhere you go
fancy volumes with gilded edges
deep analysis, dissecting themes and diction and metaphor
leaning forward in your seat during class, eager to share your insights
researching your favorite authors, beginning to understand why they wrote how they did
handwritten copies of poems pinned up by your desk
the ache of finishing a particularly good book, knowing you’ll never read it for the first time again
annotating writing in your favorite pen
a sense of comfort anywhere you’re surrounded by books
