It's not hoarding if it's books

I've always loved bookshelves. From racks built into rooms and hanging ones that you mount on the wall to standard standalone structures and customized fancy ones -- bookshelves have forever been a constant in my life. 

The bookworm aesthetic trend currently prevalent on social media of course portrays those shelves bearing other things along with books, like pretty plants and quirky showpieces, but that has always been the scene in most middle-class Bengali homes where, if you have space on a shelf, you put something there. However, the latter is less bookworm aesthetic and more "where else will I keep this collection of weird knick-knacks, small-framed photographs, cassettes and ye olde two-in-one cassette player?"

When we moved to the new house, Ma got a carpenter to make us a proper bookshelf. Later on, as our hoard of books grew, we added narrower bookshelves to either side of it -- aesthetic yet functional. I moved out for a few years and used to store my books on a repurposed wire shoe rack for a while, before moving apartments and resorting to confining the now-legion books in cardboard cartons.

When I returned home - entirely un-prodigal since I was more of a spendthrift while living with the parents - Ma got a new bookshelf made on one of my birthdays. It took a little less than six months for space to run out. The bright idea was to get a couple of trunks - steel boxes where you might store your winter clothing, your extra bedding, or a body - and shift some of the books into them. 

Till date, I've made time to organise and relocate 99 books. They have taken up about a quarter of one trunk. But inertia of rest is strong with me, and so, the bookshelves are groaning under books triple- and quadruple-stuffed on shelves customised to hold two rows.

And I keep getting more books. It's not a problem - it could have been drugs - it's just that space inside my room is finite, and my suggestion of replacing the bed with a pull-out sofa was shot down. I get separation anxiety if my books leave their shelves to go stay in unspecified locations or be unstationary.

Whenever I get buyer's guilt after getting my hands on yet another book, and wail about it to my friend, she says the book will be worth its weight in gold when we're old. But me being me, "it will languish in my possession forever, untouched by other hands, while I enjoy the miserable living conditions of a top-notch hoarder", or words to that effect. 

Now, I've moved yet again. To a house where there are other readers, too. And I have already commandeered about 60% of the shelf space for my own books... and Amazon has more being sent my way. But has that stopped me or made me reconsider expanding the hoard? 

No. 

And when I die, my books will either go to select people in small batches with a "can't sell them or lend them to unworthy people" rider, or my novels shall die with my body, set sail on a vessel and set afire via flaming arrow. My books will accompany me to Valhalla, for they are my army as I battle the harsh reality of a life of penury, because all my money goes to booksellers. 

My books are going to be the cause of my ruin, and the reason for my living. It's true love.