This I Believe essays are prompts that ask anybody and everybody what it is they believe in. These collections of personal narratives follow genre constructs that use a belief statement followed by personal experience that support their belief. This is exactly what we studies in my English Composition class earlier this quarter. Below is my submission and I must say, I am proud of it.
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I believe in the power of books. I stare at the shelves, comparing spines, searching for the one to calm the tempest of emotion mixing with thought inside me. The ‘what do I feel like reading’ and the ‘what do I need to read’ battle it out as my fingers trill down the spines, hoping that book will simply slide itself into my hand. I think to my shelves at home, knowing that there are worlds still waiting for me to explore there, but I swear the high of acquiring a book new to you could cure any malady of heart or head. And it is for this reason: We read to learn. We read to connect. We read to escape.
It is a shame that a great lot of people do not find solace in books. For they are the keystone of human knowledge and the only known way to travel through time and the planes of existence. Regardless of genre, there is always something learnt from a book. Even a terrible book teaches us how not to write. Books are the reflection of lives lived and imagination materialized. I feel the opposite of Dorian Gray when I read. The book stays the same and I am the one who is changed. But I do not fear the creases deep thought will carve into my face. I do not fear the loss of youth for I have lived many lives among my stacks. I do not wish to remain forever unmarred by my experiences. My favorite books are the ones that have wrecked my soul. An odd statement to you perhaps, but if you have never experienced the thrashing of a book or the crack in your chest at words on paper, I pity you. Books teach us, but they also transform us through a longing to understand and belong. It could be just one line to catalyze your own metamorphosis into a being that sees the world through a new lens. One that might have a little more patience. A second longer of calm. A new insight into the human condition that will have you bitting your tongue. We age with the books we read.
Through the passages of text, we can enter into the existence a person of whom we may otherwise never know. Like a painter creating a portrait, or a criminal in disguise, the author too puts themselves into their writing whether it is intended or not. There is always a reflection of them and through their eyes we may experience a fraction of their lives. All writing is self-expression. The stylistic choices in even a textbook reveals something about the author. Through this, we may gain a modicum of understanding their experiences, creating awareness to those unbeknownst and empowerment and connection to those in similar tracks. We find connection with the author, the characters they have created, and with our consociates. It is a symbiotic relationship between author and reader. For they are looking for escape and creative freedoms just as we are.
I always have one with me, even if I know there will be no time to read. Regardless of the script on the cover and the characters tucked safely inside, it is my companion. An age-appropriate safety blanket. I get lost in books. The route in which I may burry my nose, closing out the heinous world around. When I crack that spine and breath in the scent of the pages, the sounds surrounding me disappear, time slows, and there is only ink tattooed into the folded and pressed spaces before me. My eyes dash across the lines but can only see the far away lands with lessons to be learned. Books consume me as I devour them. Between moments of the sanctuary found within them, I become displeased and discomposed with existence. Escapism is addictive in the way that each book calls for the vivisection of it pieces. To delve deeper into meaning and passage construction, the obsession sets in like spelunking in a cave you know nothing about, but the call of treasure at the end propels you onward. I read for the epiphanizing moments when everything comes together. And when I am finished, I close the book gently, give my thanks, and stow it among its kin, marveling, like a serial killer does their trophies. Only to start the hunt again, gazing at spines, searching for the next book to swallow me whole.
Write. Read. Repeat. 
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