the smell of books

They put an excerpt of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe on my morning coffee-to-go. Reminds me of those humid summer nights in my childhood when I'd lie with my curtains wide open, the light of my tiny lamp outshining the moonlight as my hands flipped page after page after page of a dusty library book. I can still smell that stale dusty book smell that only came with the really old and the really tattered. Those were the books that had a rip in its plastic covering, that surprised you with a large unidentifiable stain on page three hundred and fifty-four, that came with corners creased and edges wrinkled from countless fingertips that have grazed and folded and loved and read.

I would always skim past the stained pages with a crinkled nose and a sour expression, every time irrationally afraid of inhaling the remnants of something a decade old and terrible.

Those were the books that you couldn't put down until the morning sun started trickling in. but despite the dull aching behind your eyes and the stiffness in your back, those were the books that always made you feel so awake, so alive and satisfied and exhilarated.

Those were the books that without fail made me collapse into bed with a silly smile on my face, the adventures of a far off place still circling and circling and circling through my head.

(Image from tumblr (since I didn't have my camera while writing this to take my own))