Letter to my friends

Dear friends,
You asked about my relationship with reading and writing. You know, it's a curious thing; I like the idea of reading and the idea of books and the knowledge being passed on through them than I like the actual act of reading. I was reminded of myself when the gentleman with glasses read his personal description the other day. He gave me the vivid image of stepping over and around piles of books on his floor. Yes, that would be me also, except I make little narrow trails to get to my bed and closet.
The difference between us, though, is that he probably has read a great deal of the books in his room. I have read less than five! Don't get me wrong; I certainly intend on reading all of them. In fact, I've started many. But within a week, they are near the bottom of a large pile of various things, with clothes at the summit of it all.
I began my fascination with books after junior year of high school; I'm probably a late-bloomer compared to the rest of you. On the way home from our annual road-trip to Wisconsin, my mother dragged me in to the antique shops that were the most "quaint" looking. I didn't care for them, until I spotted a giant bookshelf with so much knowledge and wisdom that I looked at every single title.
Yes, that's how it began. Long story short, I have quite the collection on many intellectual curiousities that stuck with me for a day or two. That's my problem, you see. I go to the library or the bookstore and get myself a hefty load, but by the time I get home, I'm on to something else; my interests seem to last only long enough to buy the book.
So, tonight, I turn my body in awkward positions once again in order to get to my bed. Someday, all of it will be gone, traded at Bookman's. For now, I'm just hoping that they are not collecting dust on my bookshelf in vain.

Well, my writing... are you still with me? Sorry, I just needed to let it all out. I can now look upon the chaos of my room with some hope. And, actually, this is exactly why I have come to like writing so much. Not the room, of course, but getting my thoughts truly expressed. I'm sure it's the same with all of you.
But for me, I have a terrible time articulating myself, or atleast the serious side, by speaking. I have noticed that I'm really not afraid of communicating exactly what I'm thinking when it is written. Anxiety might come from simply being in the presence of another person, and it's that anxiety that limits me in conversations.
For myself, writing is the best way to work through both logistics and deep feelings. These thoughts, of what to do with my day or why I'm feeling so down, would otherwise just remain on my mind, spinning around in different ways. They say that naming something can bring comfort to a person, whether it's an addiction or a feeling of emptiness. Writing is my means of meditation.
My journal got wet once, and some of the entries were completely washed away. I looked at it and decided that it didn't bother me that some poems and deeper thoughts were erased. My journal is so cluttered anyway (I decided I would just write everything in one place to save paper). But more than that, I'm not really concerned with being a writer, holding my prized possessions within those pages. They're just thoughts that are going to blur out eventually. I just find that I can move forward in my life with more clarity after I have written them down.

How about you?

Sincerely,
Tim