Bookish.

If I wasn’t certain of it before, I am now. Not only am I human, but I am a bookish human. The word “bookish” seemed offensive to me at some point in my life, because it seemed flat, like oh, well, you’re bookish, so you’re like a book. You sit on a shelf and only get down when someone specifically requests you. You smell like paper and feel smooth and flat, and people have to care to read you. 

Now I’d like to redefine “bookish”. I currently have eight books sitting on the floor beside my bed. Three of them I am currently reading, and five of them I anticipate starting in the next few days.

Then there’s the bookshelf at the end of my bed: half full of books I’ve read and loved from all stages of life and half full of books I have yet to read. Venture to the living room to “my couch” (apparently Liesel and I have our own couches… we naturally gravitate towards different ones), where two other books sit. On the bureau, there are two more books.

In the quantity that some people keep boxes of tissues or lip balm or air fresheners, I have books. And they are as useful as lip balm, tissues, or air fresheners, though for different uses.

Bookish: (adj) sees books as a portal to living a meaningful and full life, possibly wishes for glasses in order to look more intelligent, feels at home in a library or bookstore, may quote books or paraphrase interesting readings without prompting or invitation.

I’m bookish. Man, college really is a time of self-discovery.

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