The Alchemy of Words

On any given day — one of those that doesn't ask permission or leave a warning — I pick up a book.

Not just any book. One of those you can just feel: this is going to stir something deep inside. I take my time choosing. I trace the covers. I taste the first few lines. There are many, but I want the one that inspires. The one that wakes me up.

And so, I decide.

I will read. I'll read in the time I have, and I'll return it when I'm done.

By the first chapter, it happens: I fall in love.

With the theme. With the prose. With the subtlety of the critiques — the kind that don't scream, but touch. I see myself in everything. In every word. In every pause.

With every passing chapter, it's as if the book whispers to me: keep going. You can do this. Go.

And I go. As if nothing else exists.

I read while walking.
I read while eating.
I read at the gym — between one set and the next, between one breath and the heartbeat that follows.

And there, amidst the pages, the author's inspiration begins to become my own. It pushes me. It asks: What about you? Who do you want to be?

I want more than just this now.
I want to see the world through a different lens.
I want to show how I see things. How I bridge one world to another. How a flower becomes a magnolia. How a movie becomes a name. How a name becomes a destiny.

All of this pulses through my mind — right now, as I read.

And today I learn: life isn't a single-handed game. There are many hands. Every book is one. Every word is one. Every encounter, every breeze, every falling petal.

All of it makes me so much more than just a stone, weathered by time.