I grew up in and with words. I contained myself in writing though I find it very difficult to do so. Sometimes, even writing in first person makes me bleed with utter disappoint of myself. Who says writing is easy? I’d rather spend my time reading, sir. And so, I did and I still do.
So, I’m still growing up in words reading and reading, sometimes writing whatever makes my mind flare but always going back to reading and reading again and again and again…
Back when I was a little younger, I used to join writing contests. Sometimes, I even tried speaking/speech competitions. They made me famous, and cool around other kids. I was fascinated by myself. So, I read every paper I ever had encounters with, from pornographic ones, which are a taboo at home and in school to encyclopedias and bibles. I devoured every book I ever get hold of. In fact, I started collecting readable materials, from paperbacks to hard bound books, to magazines, to newspapers, name it, I had it all. My parents call me the paper girl at home, sometimes nagging me to get rid of those “useless” things, since our house was small and they occupy a huge space. But reading was my first love.
There was even this one, most memorable day, when we heard a huge blast from our neighborhood. The next minute, there were sirens all over and people were shouting, scattering, all frantic to saving whatever they can from their burning homes. The fire was moving fast, and my family started to move out of the house with whatever we can salvage. When nothing seemed left, I hurried back to the house to see my precious books on the shelves, screaming for me to save them. My father grabbed my arm, telling me to leave all those behind, or I might get caught up in the fire. Fortunately for my beloved books, I was a stubborn kid. I ran towards the house, seized them by tens and put them in sacks, and would I believe it myself, I went out of the house, half-running, dragging the two sacks of readable thingies behind me! Good thing was the fire never made it our compound, indebted to the brave firemen who killed it. So, my precious were all returned to the shelves, brighter with gratefulness of their master who had all the love in world to save them.
Regrettably, I could not do anything for them when typhoon Haiyan struck my hometown on November, 2013. I did not even look back, because the selfish master just fled and struggled to survive the wrath of the humungous wave that crushed anything on its path. So, I only uttered them a prayer, and believed that at least the loved ones I have lost too to the waters will have something to read while they’re on their way to heaven.
Right now, I’d like a little shift on my perspective. What if I start writing again, and maybe few kids out there who will be inspired to read the words I have grown up with and be encouraged to keep a shelves of words for themselves, too? I don’t want to be selfish anymore, I will let these words flow, the words I learned and lived with me through years, in memory of the greatest companions I ever had: my precious books.