Secondhand books had so much life in them. They'd lived, sometimes in many homes, or maybe just one. Theyd been on airplanes, traveled to sunny beaches, or crowded into a backpack and taken high up on a mountain where the air thinned.

Bookworms do that a lot, fall for the hero in their latest read and get terribly down about the fact they’re fictional.

Time cleaning was less time reading, so I usually just did the minimal amount, and left it for another day, a day that would never come.

This particular book felt familiar, like an old friend. The characters drew me into their world, and I blocked out mine for the rest of the afternoon.

My books have taken me around the world, but it's time I stepped from the pages, so I can see it for myself

My to-be-read pile sadly would most likely outlive me - though I tried valiantly to catch up with it, I'd never get there. The allure of new books, new writers, characters who beckoned to me would never wane.

My life is too lonely without fictional people crowding my mind.

Maybe some people were destined to be alone. But, I reminded myself, you're never alone if you read.

Jeez, have I been missing out on living because I've let my fear drive every single choice I've ever made?

... you always seem to think you have to change, you think you have to improve yourself, to be like everyone else, to fit in, but can't you see you're perfect just the way you are?