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The Reader: Part 2

"So what does he do", I quizzed her, zealous in my attempts to paint a picture of this stranger who had taken over what was once mine.

"He's not always reading like you", she gave a hint, a slight rebuke at a habit that she used to always mock me for.

To read. To write. To think. I had to admit they never gave me the bliss she did. Nor did they give the memories. Or the pleasures.

But unlike her, they were always there by my side, only absent by my own choice to not be with them. It was they who made my dreams as a child, endowed me with that lively imagination I still have to this day, helped me make sense of all the chaos in the world, comfort and inspire me in my darkest movements, fill the vast swathes of time that threatened to bore me and lifted me up when she let me down.

It is reading that made me who I am, and I am damn well proud of it.
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