By: Gabriela Yareliz
I visited a magical bookstore today. Every book inside was either old and familiar from past readings, like that one version of the Odyssey I read before freshman year, or unknown and new books to the eye and mind.
On the walls were old cartoons, old covers with dedications and little handwritten notes to old book owners. The floor boards creaked, and there was a certain stillness to the place despite the oldies on the speakers. Every inch of the store was covered in something. It was a detail overwhelm.
On one of the shelves, I found a sticker of a café we had been searching for. A clue.
Being there made me want to have my own bookstore or at least my own typewriter. I miss having one of those. The visit made me wonder how much of life we squander on a screen or waiting when there is so much left to be known. When there is no right timing other than when we have breath.
It made me wonder how many clues surround us, sort of like that little café sticker that just happened to be there when we were literally walking to find it. It made me wonder how many places in the world have Steve Martin comedy records and Francoise Hardy records under the same roof.
Part of me wanted to buy the whole store. Another part of me recognized that the more I have, the less free I feel.
Pages and pages fill that space. Words filling up inches and inches— on the paper, on the walls, through the speakers, in our minds, on our hearts.