Why I read

The reason why I read is quite simple: I love to. Every time I pick up a book and flip it over or reach into the inside cover and read it, I feel like I’ve made a connection; it’s like I’ve made a promise to the book—if peek inside and give it a reason for being, it will, in turn, give me a reason to keep turning the pages. Books tug at my heart, every pain, love, loss, victory, or sorrow it feels, I too feel. I lose myself in books; it’s like suddenly I forget who I am and what I’m doing and find myself lost in the marvelous escape of fluttering pages. If books were drugs, I’d definitely have to enroll in a rehab facility because my love of books ironically goes beyond words. I constantly find my fascinated with the control the words have over me. My toes curl and a rush of adrenaline flushes through me as I relive an adventure that could never be mine. Some people might label me a bibliophile and I wouldn’t disagree, sometimes it seems to only thing I’ve ever really had in this messy world is books and whenever I truly need to get away, it’s still there. Electronic book readers will never feel the rush of heady, syrupy immersion of drug-like entrancement text on page can induce; the feel of tangible acceptance lying in their hands reminding them that they are not alone. If ever asked, “Why do you read books so much?” I reply, “Because my love of books is what gets me from day to day and if ever a day came when I would have to give up books for a greater pursuit, I don’t think I’d be able to tear my heart from its spine and leave.”