12 June 2011


12 June 2011
Today, we visited our family who lived a town away from ours. One of my favorite aunts was there (so glad it was her day off from work). She's one of the kindest persons I know. Ten years my senior, she's more outgoing than I am at my age right now. She loves to dress (as proven by the looks of her closet) and would know where exactly to buy the cheapest items. After hours of chit-chat, she brought me to her room to show some really really really nice outfits. But what caught my attention was big plastic box filled with books. Novels. And I suddenly felt that deep longing I knew I had, not so long ago. It was a feeling I know I'll never forget.

Saying that I'm a bookworm is an understatement. I used to have 70+ novels that I have accumulated over time during my high school days. It's a hobby that started when I got inspired by one of my aunts who also loved to read books. I was delighted to find some friends whom I've exchanged books with. Eventually, I found myself saving up my allowances to buy novels from book sales and bookstores. Since then, I and my novels were inseparable. I lived the world written before me and went where the stories took me. I cried and laughed at the same time, not even caring who saw me. Novels made a good escape from the real world - which can be harsh sometimes. I fell in and out of love with the characters I never really met. I went on and on reading my books. Sometimes I even forgot meal times because I was so engrossed in my book and couldn't put it down.

Until I graduated from high school and started to attend university. My Nursing studies made a good mistress and took all of my time. Good thing my books didn't have any sign of life in them or they would have committed suicide the very time I started to abandon them. When I graduated, we moved out of our old house and I decided to sell all my books. I realized I was too much of a dreamer and I somehow thought that if kept all my books with me, I would never be able to successfully deal with reality.

Apparently, I was wrong. Dreams are a good thing. We all start with a dream. Life can be meaningless without our dreams. Life can be dry. I realized that as soon as I saw the books. I started to look at them one by one. My aunt probably saw the longing in my eyes that she readily offered to lend me the books. I took two, and then she suggested two more. I went home, happy with the thought of reading once again. In my troubled life today, I'm sure the books would give me some kind of comfort.

"Keep whatever makes you happy."

Love and sunshine,

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