We naturally feel for them on such deep level. We relate to them. We want to hug them and then slam them against the wall for their bittersweet experience. We re-read them when nostalgic. We regard them as something highly for their wisdom. We share them with the people we love. We crave them, we hoard them and we burn them.
A book can be consoling like a good friend. It can be understanding, kind and relentless at the same time. Bitter than the truth and sweeter than a lie and sometimes just so heart wrenchingly honest. Books are more than an escape, they’re a lifestyle choice- a means to a beginning and a means to an end. Books are magical and at times, even more meaningful than life.
Books are the one constant in this ever-changing, technology oriented world. It helps us connect with our past, revel in glory of the present and preserve something for the future. We want books to transport us to another world when the present is too much to take, to get lost in fiction and maybe just for a little while forget our problems, divert our minds and subside the pain. We expect books to be awfully magically relateable so we find our story being repeated and old familiar tales being retold. We read books to explore the infinite possibilities of the human mind and of the heart. To read the minds of its creators, perhaps even a glimpse into their lives. We read books to learn, to adapt and to fit in, carrying them around like a shadow. We read to connect with the author, the characters in the book and to connect with all the people who have read it. We read to feel emotions either known or foreign to us and to discover the impossibilities of the world- a child’s imagination, a writer’s insomnia and all forms of experience and wisdom of both the sane and insane.
We read to breathe.