Happiness in my life is greatest in the smallest of moments.  The tiniest spaces of time can hold the largest amounts of joy, concentrated and pure.  Bright, and yellow, and warm, and smiling.  I love those moments more than I ever love the larger ones, because there is a point at which you feel so happy, that happiness turns into a form of love.

Not every little thing that makes me happy can lead to such a high, just like that.  But there are things that will make me happy, almost without fail.  You will come to know that if these things can’t make me happy, then something is wrong. Something about me, how I’m feeling, is very very bad.  But that is another subject for another post.  This is about happiness, and the things that cause it for me. So today, let’s swim into one of the things that make me happy.

It’s a strange thought when you realize that an intangible thing, that “happiness”, can be tied to something as simple as a physical object. What kind of connection is it that exists between something that is real, and something that is only real to us? To further complicate things, what happens when that physical object itself contains the ability produce other abstract feelings, and abstract thoughts? Is it a full circle, then, or something deeper?

Whatever the philosophical answer is to this odd thought, I think it’s time I point out what this strange object is. I’m talking about books, my friends, old and new. As in, books are my friends. Of course, you could be too, but I don’t really know who you are when there are many people reading this. You’ll have to tell me if you’re my friend or not. I do want to be your friend.

There is the traditional love of books that all us readers share. I, too, feel this connection to books, and the adventures that they take us on. Don’t know the feeling? Don’t love books at all? We can’t be friends. I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re a wonderful person, and all that.

But aside from that love of books, I kind of have this obsession. You see I know lots of people, librarians, even, who love books for the sake of reading them. But what about loving books for the sake of them being books? Does anyone else do that? I own books that I know I will never read simply because I want to own them. I stare at people’s bookshelves and judge them like others might judge you based on how expensive of a car you drive or what clothes you’re wearing. I look at books, and they make me happy. Just by being around books, I can smile. Sitting surrounded by them calms me. I don’t even have to be reading them, and they make me happy.

Like I said, a little bit obsessed.

This is why books must end up on my list of things that make me happy.  They have had an inherent effect on me ever since my childhood.  They have formed many of my memories, my thoughts, even who I am as a person.  These collections of paper and ink are as much a part of my soul as my personality is.  They are the closest thing us mortal humans can get to immortality.  They are magic us Muggles are capable of casting.

Book are my friends when no friends are around.

Or when I don’t want to be around other people.

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