Your Life is What You Make It

 When I was eight, I battled a dragon in the lonely mountain. I swear I did. When I was ten, I also vanquished the most powerful wizard (arguably) of all time. Oh, and did I mention that time when I single handedly defeated the titan Kronos at the battle of Manhattan? I’m sure that by now, you’re thinking that I’m delusional. That I took a wrong turn in the forest and picked the wrong mushrooms. But I haven’t lied so far. I did all of these things, I’m not joking. 

If you still don’t understand what I’m getting at, I’m going to give you a push in the right direction: I did all of these things in my head. That’s right, I’m talking about books. Oh, those incredible books. They are the physical manifestation of ideas, shared with countless others, which allow people to connect to the story in their own little ways. Have you ever read a book, and realized that the setting it is describing subconsciously turned into a place that you know? That you made Jonas’ room in The Giver look like your own room? Yeah, I know you’ve done something like that before, because that is the beauty of literature: every individual can change small details of everything from the setting to the characters to fit their own vision of the new world they have entered. 

This is why I love books. When I was little, my family didn’t have cable (we still don’t). We didn’t have a video game console, or a TV in our living room. I was allowed to watch some Ninjago and play Minecraft pocket edition on the weekends, but the rest of my time was spent going to school, doing extracurriculars, and reading. I would read nonstop, for hours at a time. If I had a dollar for every time I said “after I finish this page!” I would probably have, like, a thousand bucks. My parents tried to instill this love of reading in me ever since I was a little kid. I would get books for my birthday, for christmas, and even just randomly throughout the year. I spent countless hours in the library at my school looking for new books to read. 

I remember when my mom gave me my favorite book (actually one of my favorite things) of all time. I read through the first chapter (“Owl Post”), and decided that it was too boring, and didn’t go back to it for another year. Once again, I forced myself to read the first chapter, and then continued for another. After that, it was as if the real world had disappeared. Every time I finished a Potter book, I would look forward to the following year, when I was allowed to read the next book. Because of a book, the story of the boy who lived has become one of the most integral parts of my personality, and of my life.

So to answer the question, the possessions that my family treasures are stories. Stories of those who live extraordinary adventures, of those who survive horrendous tragedies, of those who fall in love and live happily ever after. Whether it be my dad’s huge collection of science fiction novels, or my mom’s liking for realistic fiction and dystopian, my family’s blessing of a love of books has been passed on to me.

And I still read every day, by the way. I’m rereading all the books in my bookshelf right now (I’ve already done all of the Harry Potter books, the Giver books, almost all of the Percy Jackson books, The Hobbit, and more).  And every time I start a new book, every time I start a new chapter, I am reminded of the days when I would relish over the stories that I now accept as my own.