Only Books, Nothing Else Will Do

The blast of dopamine through the forest of synapses in our brains is delectable, it's true- But only books have that new book smell, or that old book smell, that caressing of the olfactory nerves, the longest lasting memory making sense where nostalgia is concerned—a perfect mote in the perfume of our time... The speed of information, the instant accessibility available on the other side of our little glowing bricks of glass is impressive—this goes without saying— But only books tickle you with sensuous anticipation, only books bind you to, hand and foot, like a roast, to marinate in waiting for the feast of the climax, the relief of the epilogue that finally makes sense of it all—only a book tells you "no." Jabbering without thumbs to post and tweet and text and DM, waiting, as if with a tennis racket, for the racket to be returned in the responses is convenient, is a thrill, yes— But only books demand you elevate your thinking, engage with more than a sprinkling of meaning spritzed so offhand, entreat you to swim in an ocean of thought, to dive through entire layers and ecosystems, through reefy shallows bathed in sun rays reimagined in aquamarine, through grand swaths of open waters and talk of whales, to the darkest depths of the wreckage of humanity, and still deeper through mysteriou -s trenches, imaginary belly-thermal vents...yes... Rest for the rest, I confess, I prefer life, Only books, Nothing else will do.