Although I am not the first to touch them, devour and savor them, their freshness is new to me. The song and laughter are my own, elicited by words on the page, the page with a pink stain. Pizza sauce? Lipstick? Blood?
How were other readers changed by these used books and who will I become as I digest them? Perhaps I will know and I will grow from their sustenance, for just a moment at least. Or maybe forever. No words are wasted on me.
Meeting the right used books at the right time is a love affair that never ends. Dog-eared, marked-up and otherwise worn, I can still pack up used books and own them, boxes of them, piled in a storage space 'til death do us part.
Nobody needs to perform a ceremony binding us together, my used books and I. We are dependent on each other in the silent depth of our intimate sharing. We belong to each other, and we become each other, inextricably bound.
And when the time comes to part ways, we are never really separated. The life of my used books flows in me, in my mind and in my heart.
And now I own books of light. With the flick of a power switch they rekindle yet another love affair, yet again.
But alas, I cannot leave my mark upon them, these books of light. I cannot use a pencil, pen or a highlighter to touch them at all.
Someday I will write my own book of light to kindle love affairs throughout time. Books of light are limitless and ever new, touched by hearts and minds of readers all over the world.