part one
i used to think
i used to want my books to look untouched.
i used to want them to look brand new.
i used to want them to always have that “new book” smell.
not a crease in sight,
not a scuff,
not even a pen mark or highlight.
and then one day, something clicked.
i realized that a book left untouched
is a book left unread.
books are supposed to get messy.
books are supposed to be dropped.
they’re supposed to have coffee stains,
splashes of tea,
highlighter smeared across the page
because you didn’t wait long enough for it to dry
before you highlighted the next line.
pen ink that seeps into the next page.
a book is a life.
a book is a life well-traveled.
a book is a life well-read.
part two
a book read is a life well-traveled.
because you see, when i go outside now,
when i wake up and i start my day,
and i go to my favorite café,
i bring a book with me.
and the book that i once wanted to look untouched
now has a cover that’s folded in half,
a footprint mark from the time i tossed it
in the backseat of my car—
left forgotten,
stepped on by my younger sister.
highlighter marks,
from not just myself,
but from my friends i’ve given the book to—
told them they would love to read it
just as much as i did.
that it made me think of them.
that there were lines inside
that would resonate with them
the way they resonated with me.
and now there’s a multicolored rainbow
of all the highlights—
all the different times,
different lines that spoke to different people.
and scribbles of pen,
as if we were writing to each other,
in response to one another.
what i thought of this line,
what i thought of your thoughts
on another line.
see, a book that’s been battered and beaten,
that’s been handed from person to person,
has been shown so much love and care—
not in its physical appearance,
but in its words.
and i think it’s beautiful,
in a way that’s similar to life.
because a book well-battered,
well-beaten,
is like a life well-lived,
well-traveled.
all the markings there—
they’re evidence that you were here.
they tell a story on their own.
physical markings of belonging.
so yeah,
i used to want my books to look brand new.
and then my life began.
and the books that i brought to comfort me
when i was alone,
in spaces unfamiliar and unknown,
became books filled with the memories
of all those places—
and the joy,
and the happiness,
and the love
that i had,
and still have.
✦ this is a scribble.
the fuck is a scribble? ✦
half-lists, half-diary blurts – messy notes I leave behind
a scribble
also on @tovenusfrommars
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