Isn’t it nice that there’s a phrase for being so caught up in a book that you have no mind for anything else? I’ve often said, “Sorry, love. I’m buried in a book. Gotta go.” But for every moment you’re buried in a book, there’s another more significant, more life threatening event lurking in the corner. It’s this one that I’m currently suffering under and one I wouldn’t change for the world. I’m buried under books. Literally.
I don’t have a library like the Beast, which is most likely every little girl’s dream room, assuming she’s a voracious reader. I don’t have enough bookshelf space. I have a bay window so that takes up an entire wall. It’s a bay window without storage so psht. Useless, right? A considerable number of novels have taken over drawers in my dresser because I find books to be more precious than my clothes. Normally, I’d let the books explode all over the floor. It seems appropriate and fits quite nicely with my scattered brain, but I can’t this week. I just can’t. My cousin is coming to visit, and while she knows I have plenty of books, she doesn’t need to drown in them when she pops into my room. I’m also not about to make it off limits because that seems rude.
My two bookcases are crammed full with stacks on top of them. My tall dresser has four stacks of books on top of it, and then there is the drawer. Can’t put anything under the bed either. That’s where my plethora of DVDs, notebooks, and literary journals reside. What’s a girl to do? No idea. So for now, I’ll continue to shove them in any nook and cranny I find, and the second my cousin leaves next week, out they’ll come in all their glory to dot my bedroom floor.