The life that I have lived so far has had the ability to extract all the richness from the pages of every book and spread it all over my life. I’ve read Rilke and searched for the force that drives me to write, to explore what truly churns in my heart what truly my heart’s darkest corners hide. I’ve read Pessoa and known how poetic a life can be, how beautifully broken we all are and how delicately we put back all the fragile pieces back together. It’s Plath that taught me how to survive for she was a survivor. She survived years of debilitating mental illnesses, she survived a suicide attempt, and right up to the end she was trying her damnedest to survive and sometimes thats all you need to do, gather up every ounce of courage that you have and survive. Kafka brought me back to life by telling me not to go for mediocre books but something that is like an axe to the frozen sea inside us. Bukowski taught me that words were magic and if you let yourself feel that mgaic you could go through any pain with hope. Then there was Hemingaway, Miller, Fante, Kerouac, Gaiman, Lewis Carroll, C.S. Lewis and a hundred more, who somehow gave me a new life every time I read them. It was as if I was being re-born from the words that they wrote like a rising Phoenix.

As, C.S. Lewis said, “A book is a heart that only beats in the chest of another,” these books have also managed to contain and console my most overwhelming emotions by being there right next to me in the moments of despair.  So, while reading I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do.

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