When I opened the door to the downtown bookshop that rainy Sunday afternoon, I immediately knew I was home. The smell of endless worlds trapped in ancient paper wafted toward me, wrapping me in the blanket of its familiarity. My feet moved forward of their own accord, my heart, body, and mind all driven by the same irresistible desire, the same ravaging hunger. An intellectual and philosophical buffet lay before me, and my soul was ready to feast. I wandered through a seemingly infinite maze of tales waiting to be discovered, wishing that I could wrap my arms around them all, open each one in turn and swim in its beauty. But alas, I knew I could not. My arms were not that wide, nor my wallet that full. It broke my heart, but I knew that I could only select a few. It is an incredibly difficult task to pick between your heart’s desires, but, after many gut-wrenching sighs and reluctant farewells, I managed to make my selections. But though I had decided on what I was going to take home, I was by no means ready to abandon everything else. I wanted to forever roam through that vast collection time. I wanted to devour the inky manifestations of joy, pain, hope, and grief. I wanted to swim eternally through that raging sea of beauty. 

   My soul itself sobbed when, after what seemed like only an instant, it was time to leave. I took one last glance into the bookshop as I walked out the door into the depressing drizzle. “I’ll be back,” I promised. Then I turned and trudged through the rain, back to my car, leaving a section of my heart behind.