The stories and books I read as a child have colored my world today. At the age of seven, I was lonely. Suffering from severe social anxiety, my closest circle of friends was imaginary. I could never manage to kick the soccer ball, and days would go by as I dreamt of ways I could escape from the prison known as school.
I remember the day I thought I was old enough to enter the school’s library for the first time. As I stepped in, a new world emerged, teeming with adventure and stories. The room felt like a medieval castle, offering me refuge and wonder. The bookshelves towered over me, and the wool carpet under my feet like the finest of silk strolling from aisle to aisle.
Books provided me with an escape I desperately needed. My imagination allowed me to soar to distant lands I never dreamed of. On some days, I rode gallantly alongside King Arthur, dashing across the lands of Camelot and serving faithfully as a knight at the roundtable. On other days, I clashed against the mighty Titans, standing amongst the pantheon of gods on Mount Olympus.
Stories allowed me to look up to mighty men who would plant the seeds of bravery and confidence in my heart. From Alexander the Great, who stretched his empire from the tip of Macedonia to the ends of southern Asia to the rallying cry of Achilies who would inspire thousands to storm the beaches of Troy, I traveled alongside hobbits and wizards who challenged evil and restored good once more.
Now that I have grown up, finding time to read the books has been more complex. But even though I forget the stories I’ve read, the lessons I’ve learned will always remain through my actions today. So, every once in a while, I always stop by the library and pick up a book. Just to feel like a kid all over again.
