I was growing up a bookworm. It was such a frustration for my mom as she worried for my eyesight while I consume each and every printed material anytime I set my eyes on one. She was especially highlighting reading in the dark and in moving vehicles. And I now jokingly get back at her needless worrying since my eyesight is still good to go without the need for assistance after more than a quarter of its existence.
I read anything that has something written on it. While other youngsters prefer the illustrations and colors, I opt for the written word. Whether it is the daily newspaper (current or outdated), magazines, food container labels, random instructions, signage or postings, I am on it before everyone else with me has even noticed it.
I enjoyed the company of books and the characters in them. I got to see foreign lands in my imagination, secretly hoping that I get to see them in person and confirm the images that I have conjured based on the words describing the places. I got to meet people who are very different from me or the crowd that I am used to. I got to feel emotions that I have not yet had the chance to experience. With books, I was feeling like I know the world more than other people do.
Over time though, it seems like I have lost the feeling. I still have a lot of books. In fact, more than a couple of them are sitting by my bedside, silently gathering dust while awaiting for someone to open up the pages and indulge in the stories they have to tell. I have had them for around year now, and I still have not had the time to read them.
Maybe it is the presence of the Internet and all the things it offers to consumer one’s every minute. Maybe it is a part of the growing older stage with a lot more tasks and responsibilities to attend to. Maybe it is because the real world is right in front and have to be dealt with. Maybe it is my imagination fading away in its ability to turn letters into worlds, books into adventures 😦