A Child’s Love for Literature

There is a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. A fan creaks and groans as it spins slowly, soothing the hope of morning into slumber. Inside is a young child, no older than 12. She turns page after page after page of a leather-bound book seated on her lap, sifting through the silken pages for the smallest simile, the most miniscule metaphor, the alluring allusions. The words form in her head, painting a picture of another time, another place. Another life. One where she herself could create wonderful works of literature. Where she could mould and shape these beautiful words to form any idea she wished- a life where she could create and create and never destroy. But reality is no place for dangerous hopes and dreams. No, rather, it crushes them to powder, shatters them into shards, burns them into ashes, tramples on them until they are nothing more than dust. She places the book back onto the shelf, her fingers lingering on the leather, her longing for more making her hesitate. She restrains herself, and leaves it be. She stares at the stack of books on shelf upon shelf upon shelf. She remembers turning the very pages of each book, gasping in childish awe and wonder at the fantasy worlds she could escape in. She knew every single name and author off by heart, the names slipping off her lips like a prayer. Her love. Her hope. Her inspiration. Yet there was a sense of sadness and sorrow, and she knew that no matter how great her longing, how bright her passion, how deep her yearning, she could never do what they did. She would never see her own name published, would never create sacrificial characters, would never express her own experiences through the words she loved. She simply couldn’t. And so she finally understood- what it truly meant to have both hope and despondency, both joy and sorrow, both hate and love. And yet- she holds on to this dream, like a child clinging to a mother, nursing the tender flame, waiting for the day it grows into a spark, and finally, into a consuming fire that blazes even through the darkest of days. And the loneliest of nights.