Unconsciously, I often confuse them, leading me to live.
I am used to walking the same path every day;
I am used to staring at the traffic lights and counting down in my mind;
I am used to using the same brand of shampoo and smelling its familiar scent;
I am used to the scent of the surrounding air, like an animal, confirming that the environment is safe.
There are too many habits, influenced by the surroundings, deeply engraved in my body without my awareness, slowly becoming the person I am now.
For a long time, I thought books were meant to be read, and I could freely circle and mark on them, leaving traces of my reading.
I thought they were happy. From the moment they were written on paper, they should eagerly anticipate being flipped to the last page, right? Their lives will be replicated, extended, and sublimated in geometric forms, appearing in the world in a different way.
No book would want to be kept intact in a warehouse, right? Wasn't it born to be read?
So I don't quite understand those who cannot draw in books, cannot fold them, and cannot lend them. Perhaps they love books too much; or perhaps they have experienced the pain of losing something they loved, and I am slowly being changed as well. I am starting to become cautious.
My books are also divided into several categories: those in my memory, those by my side, and those that have been borrowed. Some of them are even older than me, carrying the years, silently accompanying me from one city to another, from one country to another.
Borrowed books must be returned.