I was four when I held
a book in my hand for
the first time. A collection of fairy tales, read to me by my parents.
I forgot books after that
I was eight when I picked a book again
A heavy read for a eight year old, people would tell me.
I forgot them again
And then I picked up a
book when I was eleven
because I was running out of topics of conversation and needed something new to talk about.
Since then though, I haven’t forgotten books and they are the only thing I remember these days.
My journey of reading books has been interesting. I read stories about a mouse, whose recommended age group was 6-8 till I was twelve.
But since then I changed the way I looked at books.
I, now, look at books like a window to another’s mind or a portal to another world. I am now told that I have a very diverse and interesting collection.
I have interesting habits too when it comes to reading books. I read the last line first. A habit I haven’t seen often in people. I read somewhere that the end is actually the beginning and probably that is where this habit finds its roots.
Life is mundane; life is beautiful, I read today. Books have been an intriguing part of my life. From being the medium of entertainment, a medium of fetching praise to actually being the only thing I know a good deal about.
Books have a fascinating part of this monotonous life.