When I was a kid, books were my key escape and inspiration. Inside them, I encountered worlds I never imagined: domains of madmen, witches and creatures that still haunt me to this day. I also met characters whose emotional journeys resonated with me, and because of that, they became part of me. I learned to understand myself and my creativity through books. The images conjured from their pages led me to become an artist. In many ways, books made me who I am.

But in early adulthood, my love of books faded. Reading became more about self improvement and filling in the “gaps” I encountered in work, life and love. I still found solace in storytelling, but mostly on the screen: movies, TV, and video games. During the pandemic, though, something marvelous happened. I grew more tired of screens and was drawn back to books. They were a refuge for my eyes, and, I soon rediscovered, so much else. Now, books continue to be a comfort as the world seems to unravel. I feel at peace wherever they are. And I imagine wherever they are as a haven.