Joy In Her Existential Moment — Image by kenne
Ode to Reading
To read is to consent
to a kind of possession—
a consciousness overlapping yours,
momentarily indistinguishable.
Each sentence rearranges
your sense of the world,
as if the architecture of thought
could be borrowed,
then returned, slightly changed.
We call it solitude,
but it is not loneliness.
It is the purest form of dialogue—
one mind recognizing
the shape of another.
Books do not speak;
they inhabit.
You close one,
and still it whispers
behind your ribs.
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