I can’t vividly remember the person who gave me a handful of words and told me to carry them with me throughout my life. “If you learn how to read, you’re able to make anything. You can create your own story with the words you pick out of every book like the beautiful blossoming flowers in the spring.” That’s all I can remember, perhaps with a couple of distant memories stuck in between.
I consider myself as a reader and a writer. There, a straightforward answer which surprises people when I confess that at one point of my life I couldn’t understand what I would be writing today as well as combining letters to form an elaborate paragraph about a sliver of my life. Books give me a comfort that other materialistic things can’t because they followed me throughout my continuous life. They became my shadow and followed me everywhere, even in the dark where I would pull out my yellow flashlight and read under my floral covers as well as lighting up my passion for writing; vibrant green vines would branch out of my bed with drawings and phrases all around.
When I realized I couldn’t read or write I was devastated. I started off school not knowing a single formula to create extravagant sentences and paragraphs that could make a great difference to the world. My eyes watered like the droplets of water that fall upon an open forgotten car window. I felt as if my life couldn’t get better: what was the point in living? The same phrase kept running through my 5 year old mind. “If I can read or write, I can do anything. I want to write. I want to read!” Nothing feels as bad as wanting something so much, aching to just learn a few ways to create beautiful sentences and making people understand you through your writing.
Like a ghost hovering above a loved one, I can remember a day where I saw myself grow as a reader and a writer. “All right class we’re going to write a story. Draw pictures that match your story.” There I was, a small girl with honey brown hair, holding a pencil in one hand and my forehead on the other one. All I wrote down were letters but none of them made sense with one another. I understood what the letters were but I didn’t know how to make words with them. It was as if I grabbed a handful of alphabet letters and threw them down on a piece of paper.
To this day I’m amazed at how I could crawl out of that hole of confusion. My motivation kept me going like a runner in a marathon who’s trying to catch the finish line instead of his breath. I never gave up. I continued to read books as soon as I learned how to read. I never understood the people who despised books just because they’re “boring”. Just like my way of life, I give everything a first try. It doesn’t scare me to jump in and find out something my curiosity has been craving. I don’t know how to swim but I’m not afraid to diving in and finding out what’s out there. I search for what’s beyond the boundaries and that’s what keeps me inspired in life.
I defined myself as a reader and a writer the day I started to make my own structure of phrases and sentences. I feel as if I have a gift and it makes me use it to its full advantage. I’m passionate about it and I plan to always use it in my life in order to do and create inspiring ideas towards the world.