The Written Word Lives On



	Wonderful things contribute to the life of my spirit everyday. With limitless pages bound by a common goal these books keep me ticking.  At night while I shudder under my covers Ayne Rand and her John Gault have held me in a stupor for hours on end.  Making the cold seem like a fantasy and Gault's hidden valley a physical reality.  She has made me standing between my fantasies and I.
	From the first blessed page of the Cat In the Hat I knew I was finished.  My nights of sleep seemed to have no chance.  The twisting and turning of the tongue made a game my young mind enjoyed.  Books, these windows to the other side, did not pass judgment and became my companions.  I take a book with me when I travel so if I know no person at my destination I always have a friend with whom old times are shareable.  Family without friends never provided me with enough company.  Taking a walk with the dark elf Drizzt through the shadowed halls of his city Menzobaeren inspired confidence in me even in the solitude of a Hawaiian vacation.  Calling reading just a hobby then does it injustice.  Adventure fits it more appropriately.  Books sweep me into the depths of imagination and let me share another persons dream while helping me see mine.  Piers Anthony taking me through his spellbinding Juxtaposition opened my mind  and revealed his dreams.  I have held my grip on the exhilaration that brought me.  I never feel as complete as when I visit another book.  The ceaseless joy bonding my mind with another realm leads straight into addiction.  Finishing a good story is akin withdrawal or the loss of a loved one.  Someday a clinic may open in the name of helping readers come back without regret.  The regret of the book ending unveils the truth in the saying "parting is such sweet sorrow."
	I harbor no doubt of the knowledge and abilities books shamelessly impart upon me.  I wallow in it at every opportunity. Possessing an open mind navigates me out of the awkward situations in life.  When I meet a new person it I feel no difficulty in sharing ideas and making compromise.  Reading a variety of stories by a variety of authors contributed this.  These authors take a masterpiece and thrown in some dastardly character that even a mother like.  I compromise with the fiend for the sake of the whole book.  I compromise with a vile teacher for the sake of my education.  Sticking with experiences instead of jumping ship when times become unbearable I often thank books for.  In my readings boring books find their way into my hand just enough times.  Reminding me, like my mother would with a smile, taking things for granted opens doors for their exit.
	I leave this plane searching for dreamy nights lit by stars almost biting.  The place where I exist never to perish.  Held tightly by my rainy day friend.  In his flaps riddled with adventure.  Resting in anticipation of the flesh's next excursion in a world harsh with reality.  Knowing putting down my book for a while hurts my feelings only because no thing fleshy stacks up against the tower of my mind.  A curse on the demon standing between my books and I.  A curse on my need for sleep and for food.