I was spending the weekend away with my friends when we decided it was a beautiful morning for a swim. I didn't feel like swimming (and so were my other two friends), so I decided to bring a book along for company. It was all good, all was positive, until I started walking across the narrow pathway between the swimming pools and this weird thing happened. As I was walking on the narrow, dry pathway between the pools, I felt all nervous and jiggly knowing I had a book in my hands and I was, at that moment, surrounded by water. We all know paper don't go well together with water, so it was as if the water could rise and somehow snatch the book away from me and swallow it up (okay, probably not).
Anyways, this weird feeling of obsessiveness and the need to protect the books are I guess somewhat natural for people who have passion for literature. I mean, writers, to begin with, love books like they're their own babies, which is a little bizarre sometimes because to most people they're just paper and ink. Well, they're not just paper and ink. What happens with writers and books is that we would grow so attached with the stories from the books we love as if they were our own, that we felt if the book was destroyed somehow, the stories would die with it. We knew that, right? We knew stories doesn't die when books are burned or when books drowned, but still, we can't help it.