Why Books?

A book is past, present, future. It can be fiction or not. It can be a retelling, a dreamscape of imagination and make-believe, or a reflection. A book reaches inside bodies and releases the shackles of the heart. It sings to the soul and preys on the mind. It dances and skips and laughs and runs and cries and tears through humans as though they’re wisps of a cloud. A book is vivid strokes of stark color and cracked spines. A book is the mustiness of old trees and the freshness of new ideas. A book has a princess or a con-artist or a spaceman or a friend or a hero peering out from the pages. A book is full of blood and magic and facts and lies and truths and half-truths. A book worms its way inside of us and echoes words and phrases and stories we are bewitched. A book tries hard to be anything but a book, because a book is too inanimate. A book is too full to be just a book. A book stands in front of a mirror and sees multiple lives interwoven like a tapestry. A book is everything ever thought and felt and created. A book stands as the bridge between ourselves and what we hope and want and believe.

A book believes in the power of things intangible. It is made of words that aren’t physical; ink stamped on creme pages. They aren’t always spoken aloud or commanded or entreated or uttered, most often they are only heard by the small voice rattling around our skull. A book is different for every set of eyes. It can be full of cruelty or hope; regret or promise; time or nothingness. A book is pieces of life, compressed and re-imagined or revitalized for the user. A book is easily accessible and easily shared. A book can speak to you and others and then you can speak of the book to others. A book is forbidden or adored. A book hurls different landscapes and walks of life until you feel seasoned and worn and experienced. A book shows you beginnings and ends. It provides epiphanies and realizations. It is the heart-shaped box, the wings of a bird, the lungs of a runner, the beat of a drum, the whisky of a drunk, the magic from the wand, the hand to help, the cadaver to pull apart, the sun to the crops, the optimism to a pessimist, the sword of the king, the megaphone of the writer, the piano to the pianist, the speaker to the audience, the lightbulb to mankind. It is everything to some and nothing to some.

I wish people saw books the way I see them. They are one of the brightest lights in my life.