The smell of books and the joy of opening a book for the first time—an entirely new adventure. Hugging the book, holding it close, smiling… so much connection with a few hundred pages.
The beauty of some bookstores and the magnificence of some libraries. Oh my!
So lucky to have been born as, and/or grown into, a bibliophile. And even luckier to hold on to this habit, love, passion, excitement, and appreciation. Forever in love. Fully committed. What an honorable relationship I have with books.

When I think of bookstores, I also think of notebooks, pens, pencils, and all kinds of stationery. Mesmerizing little shops. I adore them. I admire their owners at least as much. Who knows—maybe one day I can own a little store like them, a magical inn filled with words, dreams, and color. A tiny shop with one or two stools for my customers—my friends. I would make them tea or coffee, and we’d simply talk about books, paintings, music, and movies. Every morning, I would open the door cheerfully, ready to meet and chat with my friends.

As a young girl, my dream was to become a writer, to publish my first book by the age of 25. That didn’t happen, and I dropped that dream a long time ago. But the good thing is that I continue writing nevertheless.

The funny thing is that although I’m aware that what I write lives in the public domain, I treat this blog as a personal journal. Yes, this blog holds many private truths—quite special for an introverted soul like me.

But not scary. No. I’m sure everybody carries at least as many inner conflicts. I’m happy with the way things are—happy with the little surprises of my soul’s opposing moods, just wanting to dance freely.