Life Through Literature

Someone asks me, “What is your favorite book?”

I say, “I do not know.”

How can I choose?

How, in this world of 

thousands upon thousands

of genius letters and 

inimitable phrases,

can I choose but one?

Words thrive in my blood

they race through my veins

they battle and suffer

a war of which hold more sway

one that will never be won

as there are simply too many

to sit still with comfort. 

Words are alive in humans.

Humans ingest words as if 

they are honey to a sore throat,

we read books but more,

we think about them,

our minds grasping to keep hold 

of the complexities

so quick to slip and slither away.

We listen to music,

the dance of literature,

we write poetry,

the passion of literature,

and we argue.

The wit.

At heart, we read to learn. 

We read to learn the value of friendship

of adventure and imagination.

We read to learn how to be smart 

with our own choices

our own actions

our own words.

We read to learn what we love.

Literature is here 

to help me when I am hurt.

It heals, 

it protects,

it comforts.

I bury myself in sentences,

cozying up under the quilt of 

children’s stories

my mother read to me when I was young.

I open creaking doors of paragraphs,

watching dust whirl

and settle around the stories

I wrote in fifth grade.

I sift through essays and speeches 

of someone else’s words,

as if I’m searching the archives

of another mind,

bothering not to change anything,

just to look

just to understand.

Humans consume and create literature

for so many reasons. 

For some, the soft lilt of prose 

offers an escape to sleep each night,

for others, the thrill of a cliffhanger

leaves them hopelessly awaiting more.

For me, literature is about life.

It is here to help me understand the past,

the past that I missed,

to help me cherish the present,

the present that can be so difficult

yet so immensely intriguing.

And it is here to help me imagine the future,

because no one likes traipsing blindly

through an inky black unknown,

and literature lights my way.

Words are more valuable than any item I can think of,

and they say a picture is worth a thousand of them.

So the picture of my life someday,

the one I see when I close my eyes,

the one with drive 

and love

and challenge,

it must be pretty priceless.