I inhale books. My bookshelves are home to several genres: magical fairytales, autobiographies, plays, and classics, every Jane Austen, a couple Hemingways, of course the Potter Heptalogy & as of yesterday the Hunger Games trilogy.

I love books because they transport you into a new world. A world that is guided by a set of unknowns: unfamiliar laws, incredible rules, new love, and heartbreaking loss. You know the characters more than you may even know your best friends. You hear their every thought. See their every move. In most of my favorite books, there are mystical creatures lurking around every page corner. You paint an entire world, a new landscape, a whole LIFE within your mind that is inhabited by these characters. And they live there, forever. Never to leave the confines of their hardbacked cover.

I love books. But with four years of ridiculous studying, too much coffee and lots of textbook chapters clouding my eyes- I let that love go unnourished. And I had forgotten. Until yesterday afternoon, while laying in the sun I picked up my first post-grad book. It was closed by dinner.

And a piece of my identity had been rediscovered.

The written word: my magical simplicity.