If walls could talk

then maybe it could talk some sense into us. What with its being privy to all the time we waste brooding and sulking and thinking and staring up at ceilings, it just might be familiar enough with us to say, "hey, buddy, quit it. All this drama is taking you absolutely nowhere.You've got books to read, my dear, and laundry to fold." 

Oh, but my books. Am missing them so. You know how remembering a particular title makes you want to take the volume from the shelf and look at it, run a hand over its cover, flip through the pages and read a particular, or some random passages? Then details begin to skim your mind, like how old you were when you bought this book, or who gave you that one, or where it was you found this one. It was particularly stormy when you finished that volume. This one here made you cry buckets. 


And so on. 


Books are houses of memories, chronicles of a life. 

I have no idea what shape this post is taking. 

Oh, but there is laundry to fold. And a new book to read.