I cannot think of my life without my books or my writing,

I don’t remember my life before them.

I could not live without them, and I pray I never have to.

When people say that they never read, or they hate books, or never know what to write,

My heart hangs its head in sadness and my brain reels in confusion.

How do they not see what is right in front of them?

How do they not see the magic staring them in the face?

Don’t they want to go to Middle Earth, Narnia, Hogwarts,

Instead of searching for material gain?

Why do they risk their lives on drugs and alcohol for “fun”?

Why aren’t the pages before them enough?

Why do they not seek to go beyond the borders of our world?

I imagine this is how Van Gogh, Da Vinci, and Tolkien all felt,

Being able to see the world in ways no one else could or understood.

Some days my soul screams out,

Why do they not care?

Why are they blind?

How don’t they love the words that have grabbed my hand and never let go?

And I pity them that they live with ignorance.

Never in my eighteen short years of living have I found anything I desire more.

It’s a love that will never be abusive, a love that will never leave me in the dirt, a love that will never lie or steal, and a love that will never hurt me.

And that is dependence that every human craves, but many never find.

The books give me stories, places, and characters that I fall in love with.

They give me an escape, a way out with no price or catch.

Books give themselves up freely, and allow you to laugh, cry, or rage at them however much you want.

Just when I think I can’t love them anymore, they prove me wrong.

Books give me everything I desire without needing payment or sacrifice.

And in return, I care for them, I read them, and I never stop.

This kind of love is the type only seen in movies,

That fiery, soul-capturing devotion that people yearn for but know they most likely will never experience.

But I have.

I love every inch and every ounce of literature with all six of my senses.

I love the sound of turning pages, the look of their timelessness, the touch of the paper, the smell of the pages, the taste of happiness it gives me, and the connection on a spiritual and mental level.

Call me crazy, call me weird, tell me I love them too much and took this too far,

But it is what my being calls out to.

When I read, write, or go to a bookstore,

My heart and soul swell with contentedness and happiness,

And I feel peace.

Something clicks into place and I know that this is truly who I am above all else.

A love that will never end,

A story without a final chapter.

God bless my love of literature,

And may it never stop growing.