Since I was a child with hands finally large enough to wrap jelly-coated fingers around the sides of a Dr. Seuss book, my hands have felt completely empty without the feeling of wood, paper and ink between my fingers. As I grew, these books would simply filter in and out of my hands, filling my mind with so many entrancing stories that I became an expert in walking down crowded hallways, book shoved under my nose, and not embarrassing myself by bowling over the wiser hall walkers. I have lost track of the number of times I was scolded for conspicuously hiding my newest wordy obsession beneath an arithmetic or world history text book, preferring my borrowed reality to the endless suffering of multiplication and the dead.

So why on earth should I be surprised when at 17 years old, I went off to college, found that I had no time for all my books, and then descended into the maddening emotional downward spiral brought on by the intense stress of collegiate life and the absence of the most reliable of friends?

Two and a half years of grueling labor with the brief interludes of borrowed time to read a chapter or two of a book passed by. Working out (barely), completing all assignments, receiving accolades, and tickets to unbelievable experiences an ocean away in Scotland surprisingly came my way, reminding me of my success as a Furman student. Yet, why did those snatches of time feel so unfulfilling? Why did I embarrassingly struggle with remembering the young girl I was before I became a woman in purple and white? When the colors of black and white were my preferred reality. When "50 Shades of Gray" was only a semi-pornographic novel and not the colors darkening my day to day life. When the most familiar thing to me was the softness of white pages just opened after a long day of papers, tests, and social anxiety. The darkness of black ink, so simple in its construction, but able to weave the most elaborate tales of woe or unimaginable joy.

Then in the darkness of junior year winter, lightened by twinkling Christmas lights and too bright sweaters, I cracked open a novel. One that had sat untouched on my shelves for years. One that had been perused and put down time and again. One that swept me up within the first few pages and did not return me to this reality until 2 a.m. the next day. And so began the resuscitation of my love for words -- in their simple pure beauty that reminds me that time travel was invented by H. G. Wells in 1895, that Charlotte Bronte and Jane Austen created some of the first strong female characters who balanced the impossible task of maintaining femininity while becoming like protective iron around their rights, their freedoms, and their individual passions. The truth that words, the stories we tell, and the truth that we leave behind us are worth dying for and certainly worth living for. I truly believe that the elusive fountain of youth is only just so because for centuries men had sought out the physical world for a liquid, a pool of power that was too tantalizing to be ignored in its mystery. The way we stay young is by what we leave behind.

What more can we ask than the searing pain that promises new life and hope? The only way of expression that we have. The way that we can leave an imprint of truth upon the world in which we live.

So read. If not for the emotional and mental weight lifted off your own shoulders, read to honor the dead. Read to honor those that gave their lives for the paper and ink so carelessly left on forgotten shelves.

Read. Because if those words have survived the unforgiving ravages of time, surely they are worth your time.