I've never been much of an avid reader. I dreaded the idea of sitting down and slaving over incomprehensible words strewn across bits of paper. Much of my time was spent jumping, running, yelling and any other activity that promoted broken limbs. To prevent my brain from rotting and in hopes that I would stay true to the asian overachieving stereotype, Mom wanted to make sure that I read. And boy, did she have a hard time. Apparently, I would prefer running around the house naked rather than sit down and read some boring old books ( as I expect all boys would ) . And throughout my entire childhood, the habit never really stuck.
My sister would be the polar opposite of my boyish self, she was mild-mannered, composed and had an insatiable penchant for reading. For as long as I can remember, she's been a bookworm in every sense of the word. Whether those words came from novels, textbooks or the labels on the back of soda bottles, she would feed off them like a real worm eating rotting wood. Sometimes, I swear I see her chewing away as she reads, seeming to digest the words as she takes it in. Of course, with all her incessant reading came great knowledge.
It would seem that her appetite for reading has rubbed off on me over the years as well. I have no idea when or how it all began, but I don't mind a new hobby to fill up my time. Flipping open a book is like a gateway into a whole new world. Where my imagination and the authors words defines the boundaries of what happens. It's like a movie, only the pictures, scenes and special effects are all in my head. A world where I'm free to create and picture anything, however I want it.
