While we may not have one singular defining moment, I believe that we have a series of them. Like beads on a string, or bumps in the road, we have people, objects and experiences that define and shape us. There’s good and bad, naturally. For me, some of the best were comic books.

I would spend hours looking through second-hand issues of the Amazing Spider-Man. It was difficult to find ones in order, but it didn’t really matter, because here was a way to have a good time. A badass trip into a world of color and shapes, good and evil and Peter Parker who always did the right thing, even though it sometimes seemed impossible. To me it was an escape, sure, but it was also an adventure. It was an education. It was just as real to me as anything could be. 

Those books were nothing but paper and ink, really. Mass produced in a printing factory somewhere. Scientifically indistinguishable from the advertisements that our dog would rip apart as they came through the mail slot every week. So what made the comics different? The simple answer to that is easy. Way more effort, a cohesive story, beautiful art and so on. 

But if I boil it down the answer is this: comic books have souls.