Over the past five years, I’ve developed a quiet habit: collecting books not just to read, but to keep — almost like keepsakes. Each one finds its way to me in a unique, meaningful manner. Some come from artists whose work has recently captured my attention. Others are written by architects or former professors whose thoughts I admire and whose writing resonates with me. There are books I pick up because they explore themes I care about — ideas that feel timely, urgent, or deeply personal.
And yet, many of these books remain unopened. Some I’ve read before and know well; others I haven’t touched at all. But I love that they remain sealed, waiting. I imagine that when I finally open them, I might think differently — read them differently. It’s as if I’m waiting for a particular kind of moment. Like an idea that sparks into the mind and then becomes poetry, I think there is also a specific moment when that poetry sparks into my mind.
Until then, I wait — for the right moment to open these books, and for the quiet surprise they hold inside.
