An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

In my dream house  so many books on tables and  scattered on the carpet hard backed and soft covers a rainbow of colors and cream colored pages that whisper the secrets hidden in their letters  and a secret lever  on the shelf leads to a secret nook  where I can read  in heavenly quiet and in blissful pleasure

I read books  because  I want to go  on adventures even though  physically  I cannot.  It doesn't matter that my hands are bad or my knees are not like they were when I was young. My mind is  unfettered  by those  who say  I can't. My world is not clouded by the  fog of harsh reality.

Too many books  too few shelves piled up on the floor on the living room table so many pages to read husband sighs  looks at the pile  of new books  on the nightstand  he jokes at how  orphaned tomes just leap into my hands  because they somehow know  I will give them a good home.

A beautiful sight a row of colorful spines all facing you. A world by itself running your fingers along the line of thoughts condensed into parcels of knowledge. What secrets would they impart? What worlds would they unlock with every soft whisper of thin page? How will you know if you do not delve into this perfect line unless it is meant to just gather dust.

Tsundoku: acquiring reading materials but letting them pile up without reading them Life rushes past cairns piled all over the place haphazardly stacked about to fall over I could open my own bookstore with what I've acquired Shelves overflowing with tomes great and small fantasy tales languages history philosophy only some of them dogeared and some of them still new A few just appeared, I swear I don't remember buying them but they are here. Silent voices pleading for my hands to pick them up and for their voices to be heard. As days gone by they become silent testaments to a chaotic existence.