For the sound of the page within.
We read tea leaves, palms, minds, people sometimes, books mostly.
We read to pass on stories and knowledge; to pass the time, and the bar.
We read to learn and understand, and as a humble reminder of how little we know.
We read to avoid making eye contact with someone we wish we didn’t know.
We read because we are hopelessly nosy and have the author’s leave to poke around and eavesdrop.
We read because we are voyagers, story travellers — every ending begins from the opening line.
We read for warmth — Dickens on a wintry Sunday afternoon, Richler firing up the coals under a Montreal summer.
We read for the random discoveries and roads less travelled Google algorithms cannot contrive.
We read in search of words that leave us profoundly speechless.
We read to delay sentencing “reading time” as a contradiction in terms.
And we read to complete the act of writing, we’re taught in our freshman year in English Lit.
True, but deep down, we read for the sound of our inside voice.