When people ask me why I read, I am always tempted to give in to the luxuries of sarcasm and the convenience of shrugging; I am always a knife’s edge away from preaching against the faults and hysteria of pointless questions.
Why do you waste your time in stories and sentences? Why do you love books so much? Their questions are gentle albeit annoying gunfire that go on forever. Prodding the proverbial non-existent corpse of bibliophile soldiers like I–sworn to die for the love of literature.
Why do you read? They ask me. And I say, in the kindest way that I know how, that the most terrifying passions are the ones that you could never define.
I say, books are oxygen to me.
I say, you don’t explain breathing.