Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Earlier today I realized that I have too many books.
Books authored by moi
in pencil, blue, black, occasional Sharpie with differing styles of penmanship:
The angsty teenager, the newlywed
(who remains an angsty teenager),
suicidal undergraduate,
the twenty-two year old who never truly celebrated turning twenty-one,
explorer of the world's religions, quoting the Good Word
or The Hymn of the Week.
Then there is the quarter-of-a-centurion
questioning, doubting and fucking up royally.
All of these are regular contributors to the books:
one is the book of favorite poems with randomly interspersed calorie inventories,
two is a sampling of original writings from said author,
three is a book of lists
four is lists but with the added bonus of sporadic statements about life
and fearsdreamsfantasies
beer labels attached from summer vacations
tickets and other artifacts
that don't seem so significant otherwise.
But there they are, in a book.
Walking down the street today I realized
that my life is scattered about in too many books.

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