Unconsciously, I often confuse them, leading me to live.
Accustomed to walking the same path every day;
Accustomed to staring at the traffic lights, counting down in my mind;
Accustomed to using the same brand of shampoo, smelling the familiar scent;
Accustomed 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 would be replicated, extended, and sublimated in geometric forms, and then appear in the world in another way.
No book would want to be preserved unchanged in a warehouse, right? Wasn't it born to be read?
So I don't quite understand those who can't draw in books, can't fold pages, and can't lend them. Perhaps they love books too much; or perhaps they have experienced the pain of losing something they loved, and I also started to change slowly. I became 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.