Let books
be your dining table,
And you
shall be full of delights
Let them be
your mattress –
And
you shall sleep restful nights.
I would say that I am rather old-fashioned, and think that retiring with a book is one of the most gloriously charming occupations that the human mind can indulge in when in need of entertaining company.
Except in the case of a knowledgeable living woman or man, I feel that there is nothing more absorbing than an able book. It carries messages to us from the dead; souls we have never seen, souls who have lived in an era long before us, and yet, they come alive on these little sheets of paper, where they connect with us, tender us their wisdom, cheer and console us by opening up their hearts just as a friend would do – that is the comfort of books; the finest antidote against the vagaries of the human mind, of boredom and brainlessness.
I read because I love the grogginess of sleep depravation from staying up late due to a book I just could not put down. It is what I call a perfect book hangover.
I read because it is an addiction and not all addictions
are bad.
I read because I cannot help myself from not reading.
I read to learn, to grow, to laugh, to motivate, be
motivated, shriek, waltz with mirth, and feel everything that the characters
are feeling.
I read to understand things I have not been exposed to.
I read to find hope and light.
I read because I am not merely made up of skin and bones,
of sights and sounds, of food and chocolate, but because I am also made up of
words: words that best describe my state of mind. What is hidden within the alleyways
of my thoughts, and the corners of my heart.
I read because a book is no less than a magic portal
into another dimension that quite simply provides a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight
to the imagination and a life to everything.
