When I was younger, I fell in love with the written word.
Images leapt off the pages, and I found myself adventuring with Peter Pan and wishing I too, could find a handsome prince someday and be whisked away from my evil stepmother just like Cinderella.
I couldn’t get enough of the characters, the dizzying heights they went to, the grand escapes they would make.
When I was younger, I fell in love with books.
They were my escape, you see. An escape where I didn’t have to deal with the real world and the horrors that were beginning to unfurl in front of my very childlike eyes. I could burrow my way into a story, get nice and cozy and warm, and forget about the tumult that was my life.
I voraciously read all the nouns, adjectives, and verbs I could find, bending them to my will, believing just for a while, that the grandiose stories were real, and that I was a part of them.
When I was younger, books became my lifeline.
And I held onto that lifeline, as my interest in literature turned to novels and mysteries and histories of other parts of the world. As I sailed through my youth and tumbled headfirst into adulthood, that lifeline was all that kept me going some days. Escaping into the world of Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter, and believing that magic really and truly exists.
That lifeline has flowed into this prime of adult life, this season of being that I am in.
I still love books and I still love the thrill of cracking open that first page.
When I was younger, I opened my first book.
And I have not looked back…