“Great books help you understand, and they help you feel understood” –John Green. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always cherished the time that I’ve spent with books. The comfort that comes from the crackling of pages as they’re turned. Late nights consumed with muttering to myself, “Only one more chapter…” Then, waking up the following morning with my glasses still on and the book sprawled open across my lap. Books slowly became a necessity for me, and if I wasn’t in the middle of one, I might as well have been lost.

I’m not exactly sure when I was first drawn to books. If this intense need was sparked by novels like A Series of Unfortunate Events or The Magic Treehouse or even Harry Potter. I just know that somewhere in the midst of all these brilliant creative works, I fell in love. When I was younger, even now, I sometimes had a difficult time expressing how I was feeling. However, the stories I read helped me to find the words. I thought that if I could first read my emotions, then later on I could speak them.

As I grew older, this love only intensified. I began searching for new novels only just after I had finished reading the last. I realized that I was drawn to the books that allowed me to escape. Ones written with powerful words and hidden meanings that stayed with you even after you’d flipped the last page. Slowly, I began to create a home for myself in the books that I read, and new loves were built from this old one.

Reading helped me to discover my love for writing and learning. I began to write the words I couldn’t say and recognize the power in them. Eventually I realized that I didn’t only read for the escape, I also read because I was interested in learning new things. Reading allowed me to find my passion and intrigue for knowledge. Books are no longer just simply a place for comfort. Yes, I still curl up with a good book, quite frequently, only for the pure escape. However, that’s not all I found in the books that I’ve read. I also found myself.