Just yesterday, as soon as my paycheck was deposited into my account, I went to Target. No, I didn’t go for clothes or shoes. I didn’t go to pick up enormous amounts of food that I’ll let go to waste in my refrigerator because I eat out more often than I eat in. I also didn’t go for stationary, electronics, games, or anything sports related.

But I did go for books.

I booked (get it?) it straight to the aisle, tucked in the corner of the store. I scanned copious amounts of books, waiting for the perfect one to attract my attention with a pretty cover or the name of a familiar author; my head fills with descriptions of characters and stories, desperately searching for the right world to jump into—for the one that will bring tears to my dry eyes, bouts of laughter so gut-wrenchingly good that my abs ache with fulfillment, and smiles so wondrous you’d think I’d just won the lotto.

I walk down the aisle, knowing there are pages and pages of words filled with brilliant ideas—waiting to be explored. The feeling of those pages beneath my fingertips, as I turn from one chapter to the next is magical; with the touch of a finger, I am somewhere else. Somebody else’s story is being told, and while I feel like I’m living it, I am merely an outsider trying to understand it.

Books are great.

They allow me to be someone else, and to explore places I’ve never been before, but only ever dreamed of visiting. They tell me stories about communities, estranged to me and far away; I live vicariously through the words on the page communicating to me about culture, livelihood and beauty. They fill my head with words—new and old—and a breath of fresh knowledge, pushing me to become something great. And with each new story I read, the pages teach me something new about myself, whether I’m discovering it for the first time or it’s being freed from the cages within me.

Books provide me with an endless stream of possibility.

With books, come libraries and bookstores. They are two of the most peaceful places on the planet—my escape routes. I could sit for hours and get lost in the stacks, pulling down book after book from dusty shelves. Some will have been read recently, and others will have sat there for decades, untouched and explored only by those who dared to turn beyond the front cover. There is something so calming about the silence, knowing that everyone with a book in their hand is immersed in a different world, visible to the outsider, but yet unaware of anything but the pages in front of them.

Books inspire me.

There is power in everyone’s story.

And that is why, when I left Target, I carried out a small plastic bag filled with not one, but four new worlds to explore.