Trip to malls isn't complete without being able to visit a bookstore. Oh, I can't help it, really. It's like, it has has some kind of an imaginary power or magnet that made me drawn to it. It's like it has this certain powerful aura that every time I pass into it, I blinked, I paused and would check the bookshelves out. And last weekend, on my usual grocery schedule, I picked two.
My mother used to tell me that when I was about two years old, I would love to play with any reading materials at home, which I usually ended up tearing them all apart (maybe I was fascinated with the properties of paper which gives out a sound when torn -- or maybe I was enjoying the little power I had "destroying" a thing at my age). And so, my mother, a school teacher, bought me hard-bound children's books for me to delight myself into. At school, not to brag, but I was one of the "elite" children who's one of the teacher's assistants to teach my classmates who had a hard time recognizing letters and how to pronounce it. My addiction to read followed me throughout school days. I would love to camp in libraries and oh, I love the smell of old books! It's like a drug. So addicting. Time also pushed me to write; from essay contests to publishing and contributing poems and articles to school papers.
