Most of my days are filled with reading. I tend to pick up books around the house, letting go of any order, any goal, or a page count I’m willing to accomplish.

I always did the same as a child. I would go to a friend’s house, ask his older siblings for any of their textbooks, and just start reading. With the current unfortunate solitude, I find it refreshing that I drifted to that old and hard-coded habit. 

Thinking about the ‘set’ order of what I should read and what I should not, I’m revisiting a few strong ideas I’ve always held. There seems to be a strong correlation between my reading and the spurts of writing I’ve had throughout my life. 

They are almost always hand in hand, or one after the other. For that little child in me who dreamt of big libraries and bookshelves, this is the fanatic reward. That kid now reads anything he wants to, whenever he wants to, and more importantly, instead of the order sold to him by the world, he reads for ideas, concepts, and the “aha” moments. When something clicks. When two ideas, through a mere paragraph of words, fit so purely together, almost making the audible “cling” in his brain. He reads for that cling.

On to the writing; this specific piece was inspired by the love of my life—as I was thinking about the immortality of words. That is the reason I valued written words so adamantly. They are immortal. That phone call, those texts, those videos, and those images will all eventually vanish, mercilessly depending on the platform or the device they reside in. 

But words. The written word will never die. So to you, my love, I say—I will always write to you. For our love must be immortal, never forgotten, for it to survive the eventual entropy of the universe. For our letters to thrive, even after we die in each other’s arms. 

For our love to be immortal, I will write to you.