A couple of months ago, I came to the conclusion that as long as I am alive, I am going to buy books.

I am a prolific reader. I love books—the smell of a new one, the quiet promise in its untouched pages. I love pulling an old book from a shelf and finding phone numbers scribbled in the margins decades ago, little time capsules of who I was and who I knew back then.

Books don’t just tell stories. They remember us—the grease stains on the pages, the tape I used to piece them back together after loving them to ruin.

I’ve been collecting books since I was a child. From bookstores. From libraries. From everywhere. My current library is humongous and grows weekly because, as I’ve already decided, as long as I am alive and able, I’m going to buy books.

I am the Collector. A gatherer of knowledge. A font of both useless and useful information. I know things for no practical reason other than curiosity once knocked and I answered. I carry facts like loose change in my pockets, stories like heirlooms, and references that surface at the exact wrong—or perfect—moment.

I read to understand, to remember, to connect dots that don’t always need connecting. Somewhere between the trivia and the truth, I’ve built a small, joyful empire made of paper, ink, and wonder.