A Letter to Books

Dear books,

I must confess to you now; I have fallen back in love with you. After ever so many years of being apart. I can't quite comprehend how all that time has been able to pass without you by my side. So many moments I could've spent time with you, but didn't. How had I been spending my days?

I feel a sense of regret. I wasted all that time when we could've been together. I suppose with my teenage years television took over the story telling part of you. I adored those stories too, but only now have I been able to recapture that old feeling I had when I devoured many of your stories, and revisited them often.

Only now do I realise how empty the shelves have been without you. Your presence has finally filled them back up. I don't remember many details of our parting. What I do remember is, it was because I was changing. No longer a child. Which stories would fit me now? I never took the time to figure out the answer.

You've given me access to stories that have been conjured over 100 years ago. Those, I am reading today. In a land far from where they were first conceptualised; by authors long gone, who will never be aware of the fact that someone — 100 years into the future — would read their words and cry and laugh and love and discover things about themselves they might not otherwise have.

Imagine being able to accomplish such a thing. Penning down words today that someone — a century from now — will read and connect with, weep over, or love endlessly. I don't think there is anything in the world more beautiful than that.

I owe you an immense amount of gratitude for this invaluable gift you keep on giving me.

Sincerely yours,

An avid reader and aspiring author