The Weight of Happiness

I am a book collector.

Not necessarily a book reader in the most efficient sense—but definitely a book collector.

If you walked into my house, you might assume I read constantly. Books sit on shelves, stack beside tables, and occasionally form little towers in unexpected corners. The truth is, I haven't read all of them.

It's not because I don't intend to.

I'm simply a slow reader.

I like to spend time with a book. I read a few pages and think about them. Sometimes I reread a paragraph. Sometimes I close the book entirely and let the ideas sit with me for a while. Reading, for me, has never been about finishing as quickly as possible. It's about spending time somewhere else.

The problem is that books keep finding me before I finish the ones I already have.

I know some people borrow books from the library and return them once they're done. I've always admired that discipline. But I like owning books. I like seeing them around me. I like knowing they're there, waiting for the right moment.

A book doesn't become less valuable just because I haven't read it yet.

Sometimes it sits on a shelf for months before I finally pick it up. Sometimes years.

And somehow, when I finally open it, it often feels like the perfect timing.

My reading habits are a little unpredictable. Usually, I focus on one book at a time. But if I'm working through a particularly thick novel or a dense science book, I'll keep a slimmer book in my bag for my train commute into the city. One book for long evenings, another for short rides.

The subjects vary wildly.

Novels. Essays. History. Science. Design. Memoirs.

Some books stay with me for years. Others disappear from memory surprisingly fast. But I've realized that while the content matters, there's something else I love even more.

I love the act of reading itself.

I read to quiet my mind.

I read to strengthen my thinking.

I read to borrow someone else's imagination for a little while.

I read to visit places and lives I could never experience on my own.

Sometimes I read simply because the rhythm of turning pages feels comforting.

As I write this, I'm sitting in an airport. And beside me is a very heavy suitcase.

Before this trip, I made a promise to myself.

No books.

The last time I traveled, I came home with nearly thirty books and spent the entire flight regretting every pound of extra weight in my luggage. This time would be different. I would be sensible. Practical. Restrained.

I had already packed one checked bag with books collected during the trip. Then, while waiting at the airport, I wandered past a bookstore. Just to look.

Book lovers know exactly how this story ends.

Now my carry-on is full too.

it is very heavy and I found myself smiling.

Coming home with books now.