Bookworm

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I have always though of libraries as magical places. Book stores too, but libraries because everything was free to borrow at any time. It was beautiful walking into the quiet hush of the foyer. Stepping through the threshold where the treasure was kept.

My love of reading took me a great deal of time to cultivate. I struggled a great deal with learning to read when I was young, but after the Harry Potter series graced my presence, I began a deep and wonderful love of books, mostly English literature, and a great deal of it classical.

In a world where a young depressed girl lived, there were books to live through. Stories to imagine myself in, where dragons were beasts to admire and fear, where mysterious realms met our world, where my problems didn’t need to exist, lions spoke, romances of great depth and delight were held, and my life seemed small in comparison to those of the greats of old.

I began keeping a journal soon after. It was odd how quickly and fluidly I began writing about my life. My feelings. More unusual was how much I surprised myself. It was as if my world suddenly became a little more beautiful than it had been before, merely because I had the words for it all now. I understood myself. I understood my world. It all began to make sense. My pain didn’t go unrecorded. My joys were few, but beautiful when I wrote about them. My writing was my secret. My pleasure. One I had intended to keep from the world. It was therapy.

Now I’m here. It continues to be therapy. Oddly enough….I’m enjoying it.

When I was younger I wrote much more fiction than I do now. Perhaps it is because now I understand the world too much, and find it much more fascinating than fiction? Perhaps it is because fiction has become so precious to me that I cannot bring myself to ruin it with crude writings of my own? I don’t know. I feel very strongly though that non fiction is much more relatable. Even more so than non fiction….poetry.

I write a great deal of poetry now than I ever did. I’d post some of it here for you, but a great deal more of it can be found on my Instagram account if you are really interested. Poetry can be short. Fleeting as the emotions and memories that bring them. They are lovely, not because of their length, but because of their raw depth. Their brutal honesty. Their ability to capture moments instead of lengthy events. Their vulnerability.

That is the greatest lesson writing has taught me. To be vulnerable. I used to fear it, and in some ways I still do fear it. No one can help that. But when it comes down to it, my vulnerability has been the most beautiful experience. To be open and honest. In this openness there is great freedom and strength. Once I tell you, then you know. No more hiding. No more secrets.

Perhaps someone might hurt you? Perhaps they will. It is my experience, that has taught me a surprising thing about vulnerability. There are far more people who will relate to you, than there are who will want to hurt you. I do, however, disguises my vulnerability as artistry. A clever guise. One that offers protection, while still holding meaning. If you disguise your vulnerability as art, then you are considered genius, and no one harms genius when it is recognized. I cannot say that I have gained much recognition for my artistry, but I have simple dreams, and merely wish to write without the pressure of renown recognition. I just desire to write for the sake of the story. That isn’t completely true. I can’t say completely why I write. I have motivations I’m sure, but usually, I am too busy writing to examine them.

I’m just a writer. With a little “w” at its front, and a big heart at its end.

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