The Written Word and Reverence

I have always had a secret reverence for the written word. Ever since I was little I've been reading, or at least, ever since I moved to the podunk town I live in now and came in contact with new, and incredibly disheartening, individuals. At first, as in before I slipped into the Aurora bubble, reading was something I did to try and keep up with my big brother, who has always been a role model for me, as much as I've hated him before. He's probably made me more of who I am today than my mother has, and she would hate to know it. I read the Hobbit, because my brother just had, and I wanted to keep up. Then I launched into the Fellowship of the Ring because my father told me I could not see the movie unless I had read the books first. So I read them. From then on, I was hooked. The swashbuckling adventures, the violence and lore, and of course the forgiving and unremitting acceptance of camaraderie were all appealing to my young mind. Then I let go for a while, but as soon as I moved I was right back into it. Books became an escape, and the camaraderie that had been a pleasant side plot became the focal point of my adventures between the lines. My close connection with the written word has made me reverent for it, so I would argue against ever burning a book or desecrating the pages it lay on. But, this year, when reading a political text, I struggled within myself over destroying myself or the book. In the end I set it down, but it was a good few minutes of blind rage. At that point, I see that hatred overcame love in my being, and this bothers me. It doesn't really say much, but it is interesting to note that reverence is rarely the most powerful emotion a person can feel.