I love libraries. And second hand bookshops. The smell of old book leaves are some how comforting, as I make my way around the maze of shelves, gladly getting lost in them. The leafs of books are made of trees, and they are also arranged as if a tree. The cases are the branches and the shelves are still smaller branches sticks. On them the books and the leaves inside, each bearing fruit of all the information stored inside.
Selecting a random book off a shelf I cast a lazy eye over to the title of the one beside it, and I find myself wanting to take all of them down, to delve into each one. If only I had the time...
But I also find that sometimes the titles are much more interesting than the actual content bearing fruit. The inside stories can be so... disappointing sometimes. Like I still want to read them but I am in such a rush to get them finished and over with, so I can get onto the next one. I don't like reading three books at once, though. That just messes with my Dewey Decimal self.
It's like that, too, with people. I am in such a hurry to get to know them in a short span of time, that I don't quite pay the full attention of them. Like in those fictions where I would skip to all the romance bits only. Don't fully appreciate them, so no time for deep profound understandings, perhaps. Only their covers.
Since when have I become so pressed for time? What for?
I hoped to learn and reflect things over this Lent. I am not sure if I have much. I have a little, I guess, but one thing I have learnt is that not everything is as it seems. You cannot trust a book by its cover, you could say. What you wanted may not be how it turns out to be like, most of the time. Be careful what you wish for, and sometimes it pays to be specific on those wishes, too.