My House That Books Built

When I was a young girl, I lived for books. I learned to read at the tender age of four, and I soon learned that a good book was like having a magic carpet, whisking me away to magical lands. I couldn’t wait until summer when my town library’s reading program would allow me to take home as many books as my little arms could carry. I even won my first literary award at the age of 11 when I wrote an essay about why I loved America. I won first place which was the book, Misty of Chincoteague, by Marguerite Henry. It had my name engraved on the book plate and I still cherish that book. While Hansel and Gretel may have wanted to live in a house made of candy, I dreamt of a home made from books. To surround myself with the things I loved most in the world would have been a fantasy come true. As I grew older, I would be able to write my own stories at my desk piled with books. Maybe they would help inspire me to great literary works of art? Or create the foundation of the next epic series? My chairs would be piled with collection from creators of the written word. Great authors who came before me would now bring me comfort as I relax in my chair. I would learn from the best as I soaked up their wisdom. My library would be the envy of the neighborhood. From Alcott to Wilde, the classics would stand comfortably on the shelf. Lovely books beckoning me to come and visit for a while. Even my art would speak of my love for books. Old friends, once vibrant and lively, could be recycled into something new. It would speak to the world that the written word can truly be a thing of beauty. And when at last the child in me had tired from a day of reading I could lie down to rest. I would know that the things I cherish most in this life, my books, would be there to greet me when I awake. Oh, the sweet dreams I would have in my house that books built.

RANDOM THOUGHTS