Help! (I think)

I'm drowning, sinking under the
weight of an ocean of books as tomes
and novellas, biographies and
historical accounts weigh me slowly
into a stupor of knowledge indigestible
in its sheer collective gravity. This
house, once so capacious has become
stifling under the close pressure
of tightly-stacked volumes of the
printed word. Floorboards groan in
a overload of stress matching the
distress of my overworked mind and
memory. On the opposite side of the
ledger rank the emotions of a 
powerful curiosity refusing to be sated
the overwhelming joy in the sight of
packed bookshelves the visceral greed
of acquisition that overcomes caution.
My eyes and my saturated brain 
devour the contents of those patiently
waiting books overwhelming my
capacity to fully absorb their contents
but truth to tell, occasional panic
that I shall never outlive their
inherent entitlements on my time and
absorption aside, I am content even
within the crisis of the imperative of
their urgency for without their
presence what fulfillment is there?