A weighty issue

A lot of people don’t understand my borderline obsession with books and reading. They wrongly assume that I think of each book as a trophy to sit on my bookshelf once finished, titles and authors proudly shouting of intellectual prowess, cultural variety and literary knowledge. If anyone took a good look at my bookcase they’d quickly realise that this isn’t the case! Showing off is not why my books are important to me. Each book contributed to my opinions, to who I am and who I aspire to be. Some books made me laugh, some made me cry, some were just beautiful but they all made me feel something. Each book is a part of me, living in a part of time that’s past. So asking me to leave them behind is like asking me pack up my memoires into boxes and put them into storage to be ignored and useless. I don’t want new versions of any of them. I want my originals, with huge gaps between turned down corners from when my greed for the pages outlasted my need for sleep; with phrases underlined in indigo ink so that I can pick out anything that gave me something to chew over; with stained edges from knocking around in the bottom of my bag with makeup, food and leaking felt tips because I couldn’t leave home without it in case I get a spare 2 minutes to delve inside it.

I’m not completely romanticising my move to Denmark. I know that there will be times when I long for home, my mum, my dad, my best friends. Times when I long for the job that I know inside out, the busy tube, The Thames, my old local, the comfort of the house that I grew up in and much more. It will be these times that I look to the familiar and unlike my piano, books are things that I CAN take to comfort me when I get lonely, to cheer me up when I’m homesick and to calm me when I’m frustrated.

Some people think it’s insane to weight my moving to Denmark suitcase with books. I know it’s necessary.