Why I Read

I crouched over the book I was reading, silently. Thinking of all the possibilities that would’ve changed the plot. I was mesmerised by the words the author had chosen, I always was. The lines I read collided with the fathomed fragments of my own conscience, as if the writer was speaking directly to me. I felt all her emotions as if I was one of the characters printed on faded pages of the book.  That’s what reading does to me. It makes me lose my reality and submerge myself in the possibility of being someone I want to be, even if it’s a moment thing. It’s always worth the time.

People often tell me why do you waste your time in reading so much when you can simply watch it.

Maybe they’ve never read a book themselves.

Maybe they don’t understand books at all.

Maybe they don’t know anything about the addiction of words.

Maybe they don’t know about the different time lapses you travel while being in the story.

Maybe they don’t know about each time you sit back, pause, breathe and think how much a particular book is able to trigger so many emotions within you.

Maybe they don’t know how it feels to fall in love with a character you haven’t even met but is rather a fragment of your own imagination.

Maybe they don’t know how your thoughts wonder about the lines that deeply touch you.

Maybe they don’t know how you think over all those scenes each night when you stare at the night sky outside your windows, before going to sleep.

Maybe they don’t know that your hopes for finding a true soul mate comes from the very books.

Maybe they don’t know that all your beliefs are rooted to all those quotes you underlined.

Maybe they don’t know that some books and some characters find a way to stay with you for the rest of your life.

Maybe they don’t know how two people can bond together over their mere fascination with books.

Maybe they don’t know that it’s a cost-free journey and you can travel anytime, anywhere you want to, even to the stars and places yet undiscovered.

Maybe they don’t know that delusions are limitless.

Maybe they don’t know about the art of abstract notion of stories.

Maybe they don’t know that magic is real.

I wish they knew, so they wouldn’t ask me why I read books.