There are books here, stacked in piles, arranged on shelves, in every cranny and nook. (Nook and cranny are my words of the week.)
Some of the books are old friends, and I pull them out from time to time to say hello and how have you been and what’s new.
Many of them are maybe going to be friends if I ever overcome my shyness and introduce myself. They must be friends already in a way, because I know they’ll be there should I ever ask.
Some are mentors with words I ought to live by, and I bring them out when I deserve a tongue lashing.
Some are there to complete a collection, and it may have been another in the series that caught my attention, but these too serve a purpose.
Every book represents a dream, a new universe, a sharing, a gift. “Even the losers get lucky sometimes.”
What, a musical reference in a meditation about books? Why not? What sings more deeply than a book? What song is more real? What symphony so captures a soul?