In the City of Old Books

I am one who dwells in the city of old books, yet I am one who passes through time without touching the old books themselves.

My reading history is long; it started with picture books in my early childhood, and from around the third grade of elementary school, I began visiting the school library, became a library committee member, and by the fifth grade, I reached for world literature collections. I have the impression that I was reading everything I could get my hands on.
Once I reached the fifth grade, I was able to borrow books from the city library as well, and my daily routine became a cycle of borrowing and returning books while also attending choir practice.
I read literature collections in my school class, read other literature collections at home that my cousin lent me, and read books with strong mystery or occult elements at the library. By that time, I already knew I had mysterious powers, and I was scouring books to learn about that kind of world. However, there were few books written about such psychic phenomena back then, and I felt unsatisfied.
Also, I have loved civilizations since I was a child, and I preferred reading books written about civilizations in various places.

My days were always immersed in books.
But, at some point, I became unable to touch library books.
It is because my body became unable to accept things that still hold the presence of others.
Books and manga borrowed from others became impossible for me to handle as well.
Also, even at the small secondhand bookstores in the shopping district, where I used to buy many used paperbacks, I stopped visiting them.

Books are made of paper, you see.
And paper absorbs people's thoughts, vibrations, and the like.
Most of them have the records and memories of those people soaked into them, never fading away.
That is why I cannot handle secondhand clothes either. They feel gross and I cannot wear them.

Since moving to this city, I have visited many secondhand bookstores because there are so many of them, each with different genres on display, and I found them fascinating.
They are all managed so well, and the old books in those shops are wrapped in a special light, possessing an aura that makes them difficult to touch easily, and they are protected with high price tags. I feel like, 'Oh, this is nice,' but I am afraid to touch the paperback books that are piled up in front of secondhand bookstores that handle just about anything, the ones that cost about 70 yen each.

The other day, there was an old book festival held every autumn, and it is always incredibly crowded.
Well, for book lovers, it is a once-a-year festival, and it is fun just to look at the booths set up by various publishers, and so many people visit that it becomes quite a crowd, making it difficult to even walk normally.

But, to tell the truth, I am not fond of the old book festival.
It is filled with miscellaneous energy—the feeling of wanting to get things cheaply, or the feeling of wondering if there are any hidden treasures. If I may say it this way, I apologize, but it is overflowing with low vibrations similar to those of middle-aged women frantically digging through bargain bins at a supermarket, and it is easy for me to reach a state where I can barely breathe.
The energy of wanting to buy cheaply or get a good deal pollutes the space. And the people who gather there are those who are comfortable with that kind of energy.
The same goes for those who come without a purpose, just drifting along while being swallowed by the waves of people, 'casually browsing.' They do not realize they are synchronizing with that energy.

It is a little scary.

When the old book festival is on, I try to choose other paths to walk, and honestly, I hold my breath as much as possible.

The usual old book street is proper.
Those who love books gather, and those who cherish books buy them; there is a good cycle there.
Books that have been loved and treated with care will eventually meet someone else who will love and cherish them.

As one who stands in the old book street, I pray that the old books and this city remain a space filled with wonderful encounters where they are not devoured, but beautifully drawn to one another.

As autumn deepens and the season turns cold toward winter, the city of old books radiates a mysterious warmth.
It is quiet, but you can spend a wonderful time there, so if you love books, please do come and visit.

Thank you for reading.
See you tomorrow.
Good night.