The Silent Curator
own it before it owns you, love
the air exhaling coffee,
the yellow stain shying underneath dusky brown paper,
the aisle reminiscent of a bygone era,
the rustic wooden clocks witnessing it all,
the books resting on the shelves whispering,
own it before it owns you, love :)
Each to its own, but I own my own.
~ Anusha C.
lately my weekends are taken, not by a man but by bookstores, art galleries, European-era libraries, Marine sunrises, and Worli sunsets.
if our paths ever intertwined, you’d notice a common thread: the book cover keeps changing, so do the titles and authors, but my hands are always holding onto one. we might end up rushing inside a bookstore, where i’d reach for a book, and you’d pick one,
and we pause
we pause.
i might smile, while you try to read my mind.
“is this the infamous New York Times best seller?” you might ask.
don’t tell me, that creepy neighbor next door suggested it?,
ahh, must be that insanely handsome passerby reading it at the bookstore?
oh wait, isn’t it the one that made it in billionaire’s yearly must-reads?
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surely, Goodreads featured it more often than you scrolled your instagram today, girl ?
and i might laugh a tad bit only to tell you :
“sorry to disappoint you, but it doesn’t qualify for either. my curiosity constantly overshadow those aspects. i simply chose it to feed my curiosity about the origins of surgery.”
it’s strange how before we even realize, our choices are influenced by the external noise so much so that we stop trusting our own voice, and quietly adapt to the world’s narrative without ever trying to figure out our own.
i might trade “Atomic Habits” or “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck”, for a Paper & Pie caramel latte ( and maybe miss BLR a tad more saying that ) or Boojee’s flat-white, not because these books are not inherently good but utterly because they rarely represent me.
someone might not get enough of the infamous “Ikigai”, “White Nights” and “Think and Grow Rich”, but they could hardly touch my soul.
and that’s okay.
it’s okay if you’re tempted towards a quirky book cover, it’s okay if your bookshelf doesn’t scream intelligence or depth,
and it’s okay to cling to three books all your life over a myriad silently leaning on your shelf, hugging dust and longing to be held by a human.
it’s also okay if all your books are about unicorns and cats. apparently, curiosity might’ve been killing the cats for centuries, but for what it’s worth, you’ll end up with a library that’s oddly and beautifully yours.
building a fort book by book from afar certainly sounds like an intellect’s thrill, but is it worth holding onto the pages that don’t light up your eyes?
and hey, don’t be scared to not like Jane Austen or Charles Dickens once in a while,
not liking a book is a sign, that of an intuition built along the journey, it’s the sign of a developing taste, one that is unapologetically yours.
and no, it doesn’t have to resonate with that of the world’s.
for truth be told, “how can we trust ourselves enough when we don’t even trust ourselves with our books?”
to die without knowing our favorites : an author, a poem, a word, that quote, might feel like an exaggeration at first.
but perhaps, it isn’t.
coz each to its own,
but do own your own :)
Note: Published on https://substack.com/home/post/p-209755965
