I am not the kind of person who reads the same book over and over.
I rarely rewatch movies or dramas.
The same goes for books.
When I was young,
there was a time I read a novel repeatedly,
even trying to memorize the whole book.
But after I became an adult,
the number of books I owned but never read began to grow.
There was a time when collecting books felt closer to what I did.
Back then, I had plenty of time—
and I felt a kind of warmth as my bookshelf slowly filled up.
It was like stacking grain in a storage barn.
Some people find comfort in filling their closets with clothes,
but for me, it was better to fill the shelves with books.
Books felt like lasting jewels to me.
Unlike today, when information floods us endlessly,
a single book back then
was the result of patience, pain, thought, and sincere effort.
Perhaps that’s why
books were the most valuable things to me.
They conveyed thoughts, expanded my awareness,
and opened a quiet door into another person’s time and mind.
Now, I realize—
those moments were a kind of quiet happiness.
These days, even reading one book feels overwhelming.
It’s not so much a lack of time,
but rather that my heart has no room.
I no longer have the space
to lay my whole self into a book.
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