Bookcases

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I got my first bookcase today. But I have grown to abhor the idea. Books are a living thing, not a piece of static furniture, of no thought or worthwhile opinion of their own. I would rather my books be strewn across my bed so I can sleep with them, hidden in my dresser so I can wear them, resting / playing on my hardwood floor, living as they desire, with no order to them. Travel guides meet philosophy, drama meets biography, classic meet contemporary. Sartre and Eggers can be neighbors, Kushner and Keats friends (and not because of alphabetical ontology). I want to rifle through unsorted stacks of fiction, to find what it is I need right now, to find the right Kundera or Camus. I am open to disappointment, that I may not find what I am looking for. I expect it; I almost need it. And sometimes: the right book finds me and calls my name. We open each other up.