Lately, I’ve been finding myself wandering into bookshops. I’m not sure what it is about them that intrigues me so much. Perhaps its the classic musk of coffee in the air or the vast varieties of stories, knowledge, and wisdom that lies merely a couple feet away. Or maybe its the simple charm of the place with the old cashier in the corner with old eyes and a cheeky smile.
I feel like the people and I here have a connection of sorts. Though it is quiet with the soft rustle of pages and indie-folk music playing in the background, I feel as though we are the same. Here, I witness introverted and bashful people surrounded by their own thoughts. Grinning to themselves to a past memory or joke they made to themselves. Here, I feel as if I’m not completely insane.
And thus, I leave with hands weak and heavy from carrying far too many books from the bookshop.