Dear all of my favorite authors,

I’m sunken deep into the couch, unaware of what is happening around me. By now, I have already lost much daylight, the sun no longer provides me any good. I blink several times, realizing that it’s 8:57 PM, and sit up to turn on my lamp. I feel the soft carpet between my toes and turn the light on.When I return, gravity pulls me onto the couch, and I feel the warmth of where I was previously sitting surround me. Fluorescent light now reflects off the pages and I continue where I left off. I feel the pages brush against my fingertips like feathers as I flip the soft pages of the novel. My eyes scan the pages with little light to help them translate the inky message inscribed onto the pages before me. When I turn the last page and close the cover, I just stare at whatever is in front of me, still absorbing the ending, and of course, not believing it. I take a minute or two and then sprint off the couch to grab the next book. By now, it’s 4:47 AM; I tell myself that I might as well just read until I can’t keep my eyes open (this happens more than you would think, it’s a problem). I grab the next novel and return to the couch as it swallows me, engulfing me in its blankets and pillows. I turn the page and begin once again.

I refuse to read any books in school unless my surroundings are almost pin drop quiet. This is because of rambunctious teenagers slamming lockers, bumping into people while roaming the hallways, and hysterically laughing with friends over something that probably is not that funny. Don’t get me wrong, I have my fair share of moments of being that obnoxious and noisy teenager, but I prefer to be so connected into my books and stories that I don’t even realize I’m reading anymore. Can I do that with everyone around? No. When I’m in class reading, I will notice all my surroundings like a hawk. It can sometimes be a curse, especially if I’m at a really interesting part in my book. I normally save them for home, though. I will get home, and run up the stairs, slightly slipping, but making it to my usual spot on the couch. I’ll open my book and scan the pages for hours, getting lost in the pages and pages of words. I’ll eventually hear mumbling; it could possibly be someone talking to me, or maybe asking me a question. My eyes will flutter back into reality, and I’ll see her. My mother with her dark brown hair matching her chocolate brown eyes, her tall figure towering over me on the couch. She’ll repeat herself, “how’s the book?”, and see the look in my glazed over, teary eyes, and realization strikes her. She smirks and nods, “Oh, you’re at that part.” She’ll walk over to the couch and plop down, mocking me and open her book; we’ll read together for hours. But we are in different worlds, with different people created by their own almighty god, the author.

I believe reading makes me a better person. It makes my mind become more creative and adaptable for my surroundings. I carry a book with me almost everywhere I go, just in case I need to escape from reality for a few minutes. I carry a novel in my purse, I carry novels in my backpack, and even in my car. My closet carries the majority of my novels, nearly 75 in total. I might as well do something I love whenever I can if it is always available to me. So when I finish one book, I grab another and turn the page.