I dragged myself through the front door, fumbled for the light switch, plopped my keys onto the kitchen counter, and just stared at it. I’ve been avoiding it for quite sometime, especially since it grew twice a week. I groaned as I undid my tie and lumbered over. I stood there, running my hand along the growing pile of dog-eared books that were stuffed with post-it notes and scraps of paper. With a sigh, I grabbed the stack of books, my pen, and the notebook. I sat down and started writing down all the excerpts that I liked. They ranged from a single line to paragraphs that spanned over two pages. Reading the marked pages were interesting. Sometimes I would stare blankly, wondering why I had even marked the page. Things are altered depending on your state of mind. I reread the page, peel off the post-it note and turn to the next marked page. Halfway through the books, something caught my eye. It was a yellow book with a simple typewritten title on the cover. I remember this book quite well. The time I finally decided to buy it (the price marked in pencil on the first page), as well as the multiple times I’ve pulled it off the shelf in contemplation. What struck me as odd was the fact that the book was in the pile. I’ve pulled it off my bookshelf so many times that I have forgotten that I have even read it. Yes, I read it, there was a page towards the end of the book that was marked (an entire paragraph). I was distraught. Not because I couldn’t remember reading it, but because not remembering that I had read it meant that the book had left no lasting mark on me. I didn’t love it, nor did I hate it, it was just there. A meaningless book, save for a paragraph that I had fallen in love with. What does this all mean, I wondered. Maybe I read the book the wrong way, front-to-back instead of back-to-front. Maybe a book is as great as its parts that resonate with you. Maybe you’re just meant to read certain books in your life, not knowing why. Maybe.