Instead of worrying over the current state of my socioeconomic circumstance or the distressing politcal news of the day, I think I’ll read a book.

After all, if wealth and safety were measured by the bound pages on my shelves, then I and everyone I love would be set for life.

My library will take care of me, just as I will take care of my library.

I have worlds into which I can escape at any time,

worlds created by the patient craftsmanship of authors I admire and adore,

worlds collected and curated by the open-minded interest of a curious and lonely mind

still young and growing

just waiting to recieve and process all the things these writers have to say.

It takes a village to raise a child

and I was raised by the type of people who had the creativity and devotion to tell stories as their favorite mechanism for conveying what it is like to be a person

Communicating what it is like to live, maybe how we ought to live.

You can call it escapism if you like.

And yet I ask you to name any finer occupation than working to help people escape from their troubles, even just for a little while,

and find solace in the stories on the page.