“In every direction I turned I felt my soul being trampled upon, and as I had always suspected but was never able to confirm until now: my soul is composed entirely of books.”
Before this article begins I should stress an important fact about myself: I’m a passionate, enthusiastic, possibly madly-in-love bibliophile. Books are my absolute world, my whole universe. They take up all of my (non-working) thoughts of my day, they give me butterflies in my stomach that no lover has ever managed to compete with (although, my domestic partner has come exceptionally close, otherwise he wouldn’t be living with me and my beloved library.) My books are my family, they saved me. They got me through my darkest times, they never judged me, they comforted me, they held me and understood me when no one else did. But for the past year and a half I haven’t spoken about them much; they’ve been in my shadow, read in secrecy and left undiscussed. Why? Because my passion was locked away by myself; I became ashamed, secretive and silent. It was my response to being hurt, badly, and it’s only now I have the confidence to embrace my passion and who I am again fully and openly. I’m not hiding it away anymore; I’m wearing my bibliophilia like a tattoo on my lips. Nothing will not take this away from me, ever again.