I count books as blessings in the portions of my bad days to realize that good stories are made up of tears and hardships. Sometimes, I take them in fractions: one failure at a time. Most of the times, I prefer drowning in them, until I forget the way up. So I count the books again. I smell the pages of ink and soul where the writer poured out her dementors and made them go away with chocolates. I talk with people who know how my breathing breaks while crying. I count them as blessings too in the portions of my bad days to realize that I am understood even when I am not understandable.