I think my hobby has accidentally become 'collecting' books instead of reading them.

There’s this magical moment in a bookstore, right? The smell of paper and ink hits you the second you walk in. You wander the aisles, running your fingers over the spines, and then you see it—a cover that just calls to you. You pick it up, feel the weight of it, read the first page, and you’re hooked. The thrill of the purchase is real. You walk out with your new treasure, imagining the cozy afternoon you’ll spend getting lost in its world.

But then… you get home. You look at your nightstand, and it’s already a leaning tower of literary ambition. You see the three books you swore you’d read next, sitting under a fine layer of dust. Your new book gets a place of honor right on top, full of promise. You tell yourself, ‘This weekend, for sure.’

Fast forward a few months, and the new book has been absorbed into the collective. It’s now just another colorful spine on a shelf that’s groaning under the pressure. My apartment is basically a library where all the books are overdue. I love the idea of being the kind of person who has read all these amazing worlds, but my reality is more like a museum curator for stories I hope to experience one day.

It's a weird mix of guilt and comfort. On one hand, my ‘to-be-read’ pile gives me low-key anxiety. On the other, being surrounded by all these potential adventures feels incredibly cozy and safe. It’s like I’ve collected hundreds of tickets to different worlds, and just having them is part of the joy. Surely I can't be the only one?

So, what’s your shelf-to-read ratio? Are you a disciplined reader, or a fellow book-dragon hoarding your treasure?