“Why do we read,” the english teacher asks. Her words tumble through my mind, searching for the answer. Why do I read? The question is simple on its own, and yet there is a sly gravity behind the question.
I read every night, it's all I can do to get me to sleep. I devour books, chew them up greedily, my eyes hugging the written words with every line. I am selective; whether it's a ridiculous fantasy or the sinsiter mystery, the riveting thriller, or the longing romance - I've read it. I'll stay up for hours, when everyone is long asleep, their snoring a radio to my live slumber. I'll sit there, the covers surrounding me, a book in my hands, my eyes straining to read, the pages crinkle in my hands, a feeling of utter pleasure wriggles down my spine.
Yes I like to read, but why? That one part syllable word that, leaves me stuttering and speechless. Do I find a comfort in the pages of books, to read about someone's life and know it'll turn out perfectly for them? Or am an escapist? Do I sneakily step into the upclose and personal life of someone, eagerly ready to enter someone else life, other than mine? Or do I simly enjoy the freedom of pondering through books, studying the many different persona's, picking at the author's mistakes and loving the fact that one day it'll be my book on that shelf?
Why do we read?
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