I began reading when I was two years old.
My parents say I was an especially eager reader. By picking up absolute masterpieces like The Cat in the Hat and The Pout-Pout Fish, I was destined to become a book nerd.
In all seriousness, I vividly remember making numerous trips to the local library weekly, picking out five books at a time. There was always something special about the feeling of being transported to a different world, where expectations were a mere mystery and realistic problems were nonexistent.
I felt comforted when encountering characters who were going through issues similar to mine. They made me feel a sense of belonging and home I had always yearned for in my younger years.
I also felt a constant state of tiredness. Not tired as in I needed to get more sleep, but tired as in I needed to get away. I felt bored with my little life, which revolved purely around school and my family. Not that my life was terrible, but I just wanted more. I felt like I was unable to live up to my potential, confined within the barriers of young age and immaturity. Books were my escape from it all.
Whenever I had the opportunity to venture to the library, I picked fantasy as my main genre to explore a new, impossible place through a different lens. At times, I also chose romance, as I have always known that I am a hopeless romantic to my core.
There was always something special about the feeling of being transported to a different world, where expectations were a mere mystery and realistic problems were nonexistent.
My family never knew the real reason I loved to read. They simply assumed I was an extraordinarily smart girl who wanted to learn everything she could.
However, as I’ve grown older, my love for books has unfortunately faded. As a child, reading was my first hobby, the first thing I did when I got home from school, and the first thing I reached for after a long day.
Nowadays, between the late-night study sessions and dance practices, I can’t find as much time to read as I did when I was young. Sometimes, I fail to find the simple innocence and love I once found so easily in books. It frustrates me. Why, after all these years, am I unable to capture the mystical feeling of being a child?
In a way, I know I am lying to myself. I fruitlessly attempt to pick up book by book, flipping through the pages to find a particular portion that will engage me in its suffocating grasp. I am constantly, shamelessly trying to clutch onto something I have to let go of.
In truth, I am not the person I once was. Books are a pathway to my previous self, the little girl filled with wonder. In every book I read, I am reminded of her eagerness and kindness through everything she did.
Although my reading progress has slowed, I still love it just as much as when I was little. In that little girl’s memory, I continue to read when I can, for what she would’ve wanted, and for the escape books still provide for me, even after all these years.
