People say books saved their lives.
They made me who I am.
In Hermione Granger and house Hufflepuff, I found ideals at the age of ten. In Atticus Finch, I found a hero at the age of thirteen. In Levin and Scout asking questions and braving the answers, I found myself at the age of fourteen. In Roarke’s unshakeable beliefs, I realised self-worth at the age of sixteen. Now, due to the Dragon Riders of Alagaesia, I want a dragon at the age of twenty.
I grew up enjoying the ‘hols’ with the Famous Five and Secret Seven, an education at Hogwarts (both during and in-between the lessons) , break-neck adventures with Robert Langdon, and (often) cross-border shenanigans of Archer’s protagonists.
More than a habit, reading books has become a way of life. I love talking about books. There’s no smell better than that of a new paperback, apart from that of an old one. The best conversations are those over subject matters of a recent read. It’s my dearest ambition to build myself a library reached through a secret passageway, hidden behind a bookshelf.
Books mean different things to everyone. They are a fountainhead of knowledge and wisdom, a source of solidarity and companionship, a way out of depression, even a drug (complete with withdrawal problems).
To me, books are all of the above, and some more.
I read, therefore I wrote (this and everything else). I found friends because of books (my best friend’s a Potterhead). I got to know tragedy, pain, sadness, betrayal- most times without personal experience; and, in the times I did suffer, I always had small pieces of my personal heaven, places to escape to, like Narnia- tucked away in a small wooden closet. Through books, learnt empathy, compassion, loyalty, kindness and bravery. The books I own are akin to photo albums, storing memories between its yellowing pages.
So, do I like books?
Well, does it look like I have an option?