Reading has always been my first love. I loved her from the moment my eyes fell on yellow, worn pages. The warm crackling, not of a fireplace, but of a novel’s spine; its sweet perfume pervading my lungs and settling there, leading to my gradual descent of becoming obsessed with the smell of ink on paper. I was hooked.
*
I must have been around ten years old when the school library became my favorite place on earth. It wasn’t much, in fact, it was quite small. But that didn’t matter because I was small too. And I loved that room, with its old books and intimate space. If I wasn’t known for my height, then I was known as the girl who always had a book with her wherever she went. I can remember on more than one occasion when a classmate would say that my book resembled a dictionary, that there was no way I was finishing books that were bigger than me. If only they knew that my “dictionaries” contained multitudes.
*
I’m twenty-one now and Reading has never left my side, nor I hers. She is there when I am in need of an escape, in need of a boost of serotonin, simply in need. But there is something Reading can’t quite fulfill in me as of late, and that is the need to create my own worlds. And so, I met her sister, Writing.
*
For Writing and me, it wasn’t exactly love at first sight. In fact, we’ve known each other for three years now and it’s in our third year that I think I’m finally getting to understand her more. There are times when things are rocky between us, and we can’t see eye to eye. But when we do? My gosh, it is glorious. We have a long journey ahead of us, I know we do and we’re only just getting started but I can’t wait to grow with her. And Reading? She’ll always be there; I know she will.
