Reading, Reading, Reading
Reading….reading….reading. My favorite thing to do. The one activity that relaxes me and rids me of all my anxiety. The only activity that gives me a warm, soft, happy, contented feeling in my heart at the very mention of its name. Reading. I’m crazy about it. And I’m not ashamed to say so.
Before I could even sit up, my mom would lay on the ground next to me, hold a book above me and read to me. I loved it. When I could sit up, I went through huge piles of books and made up stories to go with the pictures. I loved it. When I could crawl outside, I decided to stay comfortably on my picnic blanket with a stack of books while my brothers ran around me on the grass entertaining themselves. I loved it. When I learned to read, (which I did rather quickly,) I started reading and reading and reading. And that’s what I’ve done ever since. I love it. I loved it. I’ll always love it. At ten or eleven years old I fell in love with the classics. At five years old I decided to be a writer. Have I ever changed my mind? No.
This is what I do. I read. I envelope myself in books, in the varied cultures, people, and places. My imagination takes me out of this world and into another one, and that is where I am truly happy. A coffee shop, a cozy chair, a porch swing, a soft bed, a trampoline or the green grass are all places where I can and will be perfectly content. If I have a book.
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