I was a bookworm. Always have been. I loved the smell of those yellowed crusty pages of a new (or a never opened) book. I used to find solace, vanishing into the depths of the story within the book and have also gone as far as fantasizing about certain characters (adolescence-hormones-god knows what not) and imagining about how I would react if I ended up in that story. It was my foremost means of escapism, when the real world turned bitter. My books where my best friends when my best friend wasn’t around.

A book already read or not, to me, was an undiscovered world full of possibilities. Call me crazy but I would read a book more than once enjoying each time giving me more depth and even at times a different perception of a particular view. It sure helped add many words to my collection of vocabulary and, in all helped in improving my word play, in general my fluency in the language.

In the past few years when my life drastically changed with me moving to India for my studies, and the baggage of responsibilities that came with it, the new situations I was put into, I found no time to get to my books. Even the language changed and the only English I read was on my computer. Gradually I lost my addiction to reading, thereby losing the fluency in the language.

Right now, if I want to compose a set of lines, I am at a loss of words .It scares me when something that was so close to me and I was good at ,is suddenly taken away from me. No, I don’t blame this on anyone or anything. It was my choice to let my books go down on my priority list and that I have to face the consequences of that choice.

But now with my life back on track, I picked up a book and was surprised that i actually wanted to go through it entirely, till the last page. I want to relive those days when books offered my imagination a ride of its own, drawing me into the depth of its plot, giving life to an entire imaginary universe within itself. I want to relive those days, when the ruffling pages of my books are not just a memory….

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