This week I’ve been home on break. To feel productive while I binge-watched “Orange is the New Black” in preparation for the upcoming season, I began to document and box the books that will not fit on my shelves. (154 later and I’ve barely made a dent.)

I imagine that many people would find this dreary, boring work, but to me it was like revisiting old friends and reminiscing. Fun, but also a little sad, because no matter how many times I reread them, I will likely never be able to recapture the magic of reading them for the first time.

From the time I was little, I have loved books. Even before I could read, there was something about sinking my imagination into a story that fed my soul. It did not matter if it was fiction, non-fiction, based in fact and reality or completely made up, if it interested me I devoured it. Laura Ingalls, the Golden Trio, Ramona Quimby, Peter Hatcher, Beatrice Bailey, Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, Max and the Wild Things, Meg Murry, Anne Shirley and many others were my friends. They taught me things and helped shape me into the person that I am today.

I am attached to them as well. For example, last year my mother took me to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter for a Christmas present. I was so enthralled that the hordes of people milling about didn’t faze me. (Normally, I hate crowds.) The line for one of the rides leads into Hogwarts. As you close in on the ride, there are holographic effects to make it feel like you are actually in Hogwarts. As soon as the portraits started talking, I began to tear up. I rarely cry at all, and never in public. It only got worse on the ride itself, as it is basically a tour of Hogwarts, as a muggle.

I imagine I had that reaction because I have always wanted to go to Hogwarts. I never deluded myself into thinking that the letter might come for me, but to be close enough to feel it, if I let my imagination go only a little bit, was almost too much for me.

Today, books are still my friends. Granted, I’ve developed more of a palate when it comes to the more highbrow literary stuff, but reading is still what I do more than anything else. I still go back and read my old favorites, and I add new ones all the time. Some writers are harder to get through than others, and there are certain styles and plots that get on my nerves, but I respect the attempt.

These days, thanks to the demands on my time from my various classes and theatre responsibilities (not that I’m complaining with either and especially not the latter), my eyes have become bigger than my ability to read every book I buy—and I still buy a lot, though mostly from sales. But that’s OK. Simply being around books is comforting for me, albeit distracting when I’m trying to do my homework.

All in all, I cannot imagine my life without books. I feel extremely fortunate to have been born in a country that allows me to be literate. Maybe one day I’ll be a part of someone else discovering the magic of the written word. Until then (and probably after), I will continue amassing my collection.