The ones who dived into books as if they were the deepest oceans.

The ones who wrote like their heart depended on it, and if did.

The ones to who a stick was a wand and a box was a spaceship just needing to take off.

The ones who saw stories in the stars and made them come alive with pen and paper.

The ones who were up late at night, sacrificing their sleep for one more page, one more chapter, one more book.

The ones who were told “go outside” instead of “read a book”

The ones who buried their minds in books so far, they morphed into their favorite character without effort.

The ones who didn’t want to grow up as we knew age to be much less interesting than books.

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