My Love For Literature

I have loved anything to do with words since I can remember learning how to read. As a child, I cherished all the books I was gifted, and read and re read them, again and again and again, and just wished that I was in there with the characters, prancing around and fighting crime with them and laughing and going around town with them and sleuthing and talking with them.

One if the first books I have ever read – believe it or not, was Nancy Drew. I guess I was in the fifth grade at the time, and for me, it was perhaps the first real series that mattered and affected me. It was the first series I read with complete understanding.

The first Young Adult novel I had ever read, was Meg Cabot’s Jinx. It was honestly very thrilling and I’m glad I read it, for a variety of different reasons, which, of course, include Meg Cabot’s snark. She has got to be one of the funniest authors I’ve ever read, and I hope to meet her one day. (Yeah, yeah, don’t confuse reality with fantasy). So she introduced me to the YA genre of fiction, and I must say I continue to enjoy it through and through.

The first story I ever wrote, was, in fact, a small “book” about me and my friends, who apparently got trapped in a broken down motel which was haunted by the ghost of a girl named Shaista. I called it Sealed, and I think me and my friends even enacted out its movie. Way back, mind you.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is, reading and writing is a passion of mine that’s always been there, from the very begining. I read to let go of all the reality in this world. The feeling of jumping into someone else’s mind, figuring out someone else’s problems, ( and falling in love with someone else’s boyfriend) is something I routinely enjoy while reading. Escaping my world and locking myself away in a bubble with the book and only the book makes me feel like I am a part of the world I am reading about, and for me there is no greater feeling.

I write because I love reading – reading what I write is a wondrous thing, and every time, it only gets better for me. Writing what I think, what I feel, and then reading it weeks or even months later, leaves me nostalgic, and at the same time, oddly sated and happy.

This is me reflecting on why I love what I love. What do you think, guys? Do you feel the same way? No? Tell me. I’m all ears.


There Is Wind [Weekly Writing Challenge]

There is wind.

I can’t see anything, can’t hear anything, but I feel the wind. It’s forcing itself through my body, through my mouth and nose and eyes. But that can’t be right – my eyes are closed.

There nothing but silence – cold, stark silence, which is nothing, and yet, it is everything, because right now, it is my entire world. For a second, it has consumed me, thwarted to compress and lower and disown and conquer me – it is everything and there is nothing else.

I wait, wait, wait for the sound of something, anything, at least my gasps, but no, there is nothing. I try to open my eyes, but for some reason, I can’t – they’re heavy as lead, and I can’t seem to able to move my limbs – I don’t even know how I’m aware of my limbs.

I’m waiting, waiting, for something to break the silence, please, please break this silence and let me be. I don’t know if I’m crying – I don’t know anything. The whole world is simply a void now, containing nothing.

Because my everything has been turned to nothing, these two words circle back in my head again and again, again and again, not evolving, not progressing, just circling.I feel hollow – this silence is the speech of the hollow, those without a soul. I can’t be one of them. I want to scream.

I need to scream, scream so badly. I want to break something and I want to kill someone.

If I could just move. I need to move. This needs to stop. This silence needs to cease.

But it doesn’t. It never does.

It still hasn’t.