I’ve loved to read ever since I could. The stories I read as a child would captivate me as I lay under the blankets of my bed, holding a flashlight in one hand and a much-loved book in the other. Characters were close friends, authors were parents, and the stories themselves were like scrapbook memories: timeless. I used to get in trouble for reading when I should’ve been sleeping. Or reading when I should’ve been doing homework. Or reading when I should’ve…well, you get the idea.
As I grew up, I realized that I could read quicker than a lot of people my age. I even realized that I liked books more than I liked people. Looking back, I realize that’s a somewhat scary thought for an eleven year old. But was it true? Absolutely. I practically devoured books, and my appetite was (and still is) insatiable. My passion was not constant though; I went through a phase where I slowed down my trailblaze through the world of words and dealt with the pains that came with growing up.
I believe that everything happens for a reason, even if we don’t know what that reason is at the moment. While almost everyone around me seems to rush and run around in circles, I’ve learnt to jump in puddles and hop over obstacles. Books helped me, but they are not the only reason. No man (or woman) is really an island, and it is our experiences and the people around us that help make us who we are. That being said, however, nobody can take away what you think about after you finish a book. Nobody can stop the sighs you release, the tears you might shed, the giggles you might let out, or the smiles that might spread across your face. By reading and questioning what I read, I remain curious. In a world of big people, harmless curiousity is left only for the young and those who read.
As I begin another chapter of my life, I hope to remain curious and word-hungry. But until next time, I wish you well.