Words─ in any language, in any culture, in any form─ move us; they teach us emotion, mold us into who we become.

I find it nearly impossible to put into words the emotions I feel towards books, towards the power in written thought, towards the indescribable feeling that courses through me as I turn the page, lost in the reality of another.

It is impossible to do justice to it, to fully encompass the importance of appreciating the power lying within words, within language. An insurmountable feat, some might say, to find words powerful enough to express the vulnerability of a writer that is lost in between the pages of a book, enveloping who they are, who we are. It is not something that should be taken lightly.

Writers are a small community; one filled with the dedication to do right by the thoughts we choose to share, with the dedication to give back what was given to us, to fill the world by filling pages. With each letter written, with each drop of ink spilled, we are attempting to make sense of the thoughts that embody who we are.

A book is not merely a book, it is the entire person. It is the lifeline of an author's thoughts, of their emotions; it is the most important, absolute gift given to humanity. It is something that many take for granted, becoming comfortable in reading without truly reading, without truly understanding. It is the gift that never stops giving, so to speak.

But most importantly, it is the epitome of self-sacrifice, giving yourself away, giving your words away, allowing for your deepest and most treasured thoughts to become a spectacle, on display for all to see.

It is a powerful, terrifying thing, finding the courage to publish words and claim them as your own; they are words you can never take back, words that will forever be tied to your name, to your personhood.

Words are not something meant to be skimmed over, but rather cherished.

Being a writer is to live a life on a hospital bed, cut open, bleeding out as doctors and nurses swarm you, as they take you apart, organ by organ, cell by cell, slowly examining you from the inside-out. Being a writer is not for the weak-minded nor the weak-hearted; we leave ourselves fully in the hands of others and lay there bleeding, as they tear our thoughts, our inner being, apart.

To be a writer is to struggle exquisitely in your own shortcomings, in the lack of an ability to perfectly formulate words of which emulate thought, of which emulate truth.

For those of us who love to read, we do not solely love reading; we find a home in the middle of the pages we gave our hearts to, rightfully leaving pieces of ourselves with each book, with each page, with each word we read. It is a love unlike any other; you receive just as much, if not more, as you give. You gain a knowledge, an understanding, of another; you gain the most precious learning experience, getting to know yourself by getting to know the reality of others.

You leave pieces of yourself within the binding of each book you read in order to make room for the freshly uncovered parts, for the thoughts and realizations that particular book, that particular writer, gifted you.

It is love in the purest form.

It is completely and utterly untouched, an individual truth set in stone on a loose leaf of paper.

It is the manifestation of thought, a tangible journey into the mind of another.

Reading allows for you to live outside of yourself while also living inside of your mind; it allows for you to not only take into account your own words, your own thoughts, your own truths. It gives the gift of compassion. Of empathy. It's a beautiful contradiction to live within, to be able to find freedom in the confinements of your own mind. We are momentarily able to live within the reality of others, until we are eventually able to form our own reality, until we are capable of writing our own reality, until we are ready to give just as much as we have taken.

The key to reading, the key to loving words written on a page, is as follows: you cannot solely read the words written, but must also feel them. Then and only then, can you develop thought of your own.

Then and only then, can you read between the lines.