The urge to, after decades, to catalog one's stuff.
Is this a (see photo) thing?
I estimate I'm only 20% or less through my book and zine collection (off-on cataloging the last year) and approaching 1500 items. >shakes head<
And this excludes the larger comic collection which, after half-a-century, I stopped collecting cold-turkey last Fall and am considering parting with.
Like music and scents, there is something about books that stirs the memory of the time I first read them, evoking a bittersweet nostalgia of long ago spring days when warm breezes gently lifted the lace curtains of my bedroom window while I read Lord Dunsany, William Morris, or Edgar Rice Burroughs; or of smoke-scented cool autumn nights when dead leaves skittered like chittering spiders along the silent streets while I read Ray Bradbury, H. P. Lovecraft, and Clark Ashton Smith...
Am I also considering parting with my books?
No, no, no.
I'm not dead yet. ;)