I read because it paints a picture;

Of the intellectual kind

That shakes me to consciousness

And makes me face reality.

I read because it gives me another life,

Another perspective,

Another mind,

Another sensation,

And makes it surreal.

I read because I travel

From a land of Dark Lords

To a land where Time stops still and then

To a land with magical Wardrobes

Before a land of Desolation

And a land of long Winters but

I wind back to Earth—

The unnatural ground my legs touch and

The poisonous air my nose breathes.

The destructive sound my ears hear and

The chaos my eyes see.

But, I still read what you write

Because it tells me a story

Describes another human

And a powerful emotion

Which strikes that chord

Not making me feel lonely,

Anymore.

It's funny how I read and write, both.

I am the story-teller and

I am the listener.

I am the God and

I am the one who he creates.

I am the heat in the day and

I am the cold in the night.

I am you and

I am me.

But,

Aren't we all the same

If we, both, read and write?

Like we inhale and exhale?

Or like we stay wide awake or in a deep slumber?

Or like we create and destruct?

Or like we live and perish?

Then, why are we different?

But, that is how I read

and this is how I write.

Like, this is how you read.

Now, tell me, how you write.