i'm nothing but a collection of the unread epubs and pdf i download illegally

it starts with the tiniest spark—someone mentions a book in passing, or i stumble across a blog post claiming, “this novel will change your life.” a quick google search later, i’m on one of those shady, popup-filled websites, heart racing, fingers poised to click “download.” the thrill is undeniable, like i’m part of some underground rebellion. the file saves to my computer, joins the hundreds of others in a cluttered folder labeled "books," and that’s where it stays.

i don’t know why i keep doing this. maybe it’s the excitement of potential, the idea that i could read any of these books at any time. i tell myself, “you’ll get to it. tomorrow, for sure.” but tomorrow comes, and i scroll past them to rewatch a random cooking video or doomscroll on instagram.

the thing is, i do love books. i love the idea of reading, the way books promise an escape, a lesson, a connection. but somehow, the act of actually sitting down and opening one feels overwhelming. i get stuck before i even start. what if it’s too hard to follow? what if i don’t like it? what if i never finish it? it’s easier to just... not.

still, the unread files haunt me. they whisper every time i see them, tiny ghosts of my best intentions: you downloaded us for a reason. you wanted to know something, feel something. remember? but i don’t answer. instead, i shove another file into the pile, as if owning it is the same as absorbing its contents.

and let’s not ignore the guilt. oh, it’s there. these books aren’t even mine. someone poured months, maybe years, into writing them, and here i am, downloading their work for free like it’s nothing. i tell myself, “you’ll buy a real copy once you’ve read it,” but that feels like a hollow promise when i can’t even bring myself to open the pirated version.

it’s funny, though—this hoarding of unread books says so much about who i am. i’m someone who dreams of being well-read, of having deep, intellectual thoughts and quoting passages that make me sound profound. but mostly, i’m someone who’s tired, distracted, and constantly chasing the next thing. downloading books feels productive in the moment, like a step toward a better, smarter me. but the reality is i’m just procrastinating, collecting files instead of experiences. the unread epub is just another symbol of my anxiety — always reaching never arriving.

it’s not just books, either. it’s a pattern. i bookmark articles i never read. i save recipes i’ll never cook. i start projects i don’t finish. i’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of possibilities, paralyzed by the choices i’ve given myself. and in the end, i stick to the familiar: scrolling through twitter, rewatching comfort shows, refreshing my inbox like something life-changing will appear there.

for now, though, my ebooks remain untouched, my library of good intentions growing larger by the day. i like to think that one day, i’ll surprise myself. one day, i’ll wake up and finally open war and peace or that random pdf about the history of salt. maybe i’ll even enjoy it.

but until then, i’ll probably just download another book i won’t read.