Beauty of Literature

I can remember it like it was yesterday.

The day I realized what made me feel alive. I could say it was music first but I’d be lying. I can remember not wanting to put my pencil down. Sitting on a chair for hours writing well I’m not quite sure what it exactly it was but it was something. 

Well obviously it was something. Okay now I’m just not making sense. But what I can say is that was the day I realized I knew what it is I should be doing. I knew I had a love for reading English literature since I could remember. For crying out loud I was reading To kill a mockingbird when I was in 8th grade. But writing that was something totally new for me. 

I mean I was always good at it. Got a perfect score whenever I had to do essays and writing about almost  any topic came easy to me. As I got older it became something therapeutic. That’s when journaling my thoughts came in. Every chance I got to write whatever it is that I wanted to remember I did.

I completely let go when it came to writing. Everything about it made me feel alive and in love. I had found my calling and something that came so easy to me. I love it with every inch of my body. It makes me feel something new every single time. Because of it I know who I am. 

Writing takes me places old and new. It revives me all the time. It’s what puts me back together. I’ll never find anything else like it. It’s the only thing in the only thing that makes me understand the world around me. I guess that’s why they call passion.

Yours always,



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