Image: Cory Blaz

F*^k Your Library.

And all your books as well.

Here’s some advice you probably don’t want to hear.

You know all your beloved books?

It’s time to fuck them off.

I know, I know, this is hard. You’ve spent the last ten years slowly building up a good collection of books. How could you possibly entertain the thought of just getting rid of them all? How could you live without your lovely beautiful books?!

To hell with that. Think the other way around: How can you possibly live with your books? Seriously? If you’ve read them, you don’t need them, and if you haven’t read them, what’s the point of having them? What are you doing?

Instead, get rid of them. Give them to someone else who should read them, or someone who wouldn’t discover a certain book themselves, or better yet, give them to someone who can’t afford books. Give them all away, hand them off to strangers on the train, leave them in cafes, on the bus, do what you have to do but just get those awful little bastards out of your life.

You think I’m crazy don’t you? You still think you need your books, you’ve got that future library in that future house that you’re thinking of aren’t you?

Guess what? That’s not your fucking library, it’s actually your ego.

Yep, there, I said the thing you didn’t want to hear. You’ve been dragging those ridiculously heavy boxes from your parents place, to college, through a string of sharehouses, to that flat you had with a partner, to the new place after the break up, to another place after that… and each time there were a few more little bound stacks of paper full of inky symbols that you’ve convinced yourself mean something, and that most damagingly, you think say something about you.

They don’t, and you’ll never put them in your own personal library with that leather reading chair and the fire place and one of those stupid sliding laders. No, they’ll end up in boxes in attics and basements and ‘junk rooms’, and your children, or more likely their children will one day have to deal with them all when they’re cleaning out your house after your death.

I know this this is hard to hear. But you really don’t need them. You’ve read them, let them go. You are not your books. Give them to other people, give them to friends, give them to strangers.

And then… Then walk out into the sunshine, with the one book you’re reading at the moment, happy in the knowledge that all that paper that you thought meant something is no longer following you around, no longer weighing you down, no longer representing a falsely engineered physical manifestation of your own ego.

Go to the park, lay in the sun and read it till it’s finished, and then give it to that stranger and find another one.

You’re going to be okay.