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J.R.R. Tolkien via last.fm. What a jerk.

For me, reading started at an early age. I thought if I knew how to read, I'd know more about the world. It would open doors that were closed with the proverbial lock, and then I’d come to a greater understanding of things. My grandmother had a large, ancient encyclopedia collection that was mostly comprised of general knowledge for farm construction and geography, but I was fascinated when I knew that the information was available and all I needed was the key. I made my way tearing through articles about the Queen, log fences, chicken coops, and Albania. All which proved to be completely useless with my future endeavors, but I suppose it was the first fuel my tank took.

My mother was interested in collecting books for a display library, but I spent a lot of time reading most of them. I took myself through Romeo and Juliet in third grade, and attempted to tackle The Count of Monte Cristo during late grade seven. My single friend and I thought of each other to be mavericks. We enjoyed reading, much unlike our peers, and assumed it to be the best thing imaginable. Our test scores just went on to prove that we were reading far beyond our, then current, level. Our egotism knew no bounds. We took part in every reading circle and book club, completed every book weeks before the rest, and exceeded countless expectations (yet, not reaching our own).

I remember the nights I crawled into bed with my book lamp and novels. I spent a number of hours listening to a small hand-held radio and watching my books in my head. I can recall the fabric I believed Mr. Wonka's coat to be tailored from, the smell of smoky dragon's eggs, and the thrilling suspense that was scattered throughout the drama I flung myself into.

I was always a part of the story residing in the shell of a like character, the character I felt most similar to. Even after I put a book down, I spent a good amount of time sketching up concepts I had previously read about. I made my own characters in those worlds and created stories surrounding them. I could almost understand their reality better than my own. These nights in silence really proved to me that I could appreciate literature with my inner voice rather than anything audible. I could pick up the slightest nuances, understand main points, and completely immerse myself in another reality.

Once, my dad attempted to read the Hobbit to me, and I think that’s where I cultivated my dislike for anything Tolkien. Although Tolkien is well known for his descriptive landscapes, deep-rooted characters, and expansive plot, nothing materialized before me. It didn’t make sense to me why I, being the great reader that I was, even with my interest in novels, did not enjoy something as simple and as famous as The Hobbit. My interest in listening to books quickly declined when I realized it was the problem. I was hesitant to lose track of reality and was too busy thinking about other subjects to actually understand anything he was speaking about.

I continue to read books only to myself, by myself. I find it less stressful and enjoy being alone with my thoughts. Reading out loud is saved for only times of utter desperation; times where I can’t understand what’s being conveyed and will probably continue in that misunderstanding after I attempt to read it out loud.

I still hold the confidence I once had, but I’m far too out of practice to be as proud. My reading friend and I have since grown apart. If I had continued reading with the same enthusiasm as I once had, would my only friends be books? I often think about it, but assume the position that it’s not exactly the healthiest game to play.

I am picking up books more often now, although I can’t look at them in the same light as I did. Adjusting to realities becomes more and more of an unneeded challenge while you’re, in reality, adjusting to realities. Escape is a pretentious concept. Maybe once I better adjust myself, there will be room for improvement. As it stands, I’m confident with my ability to get through what I must. The problem lies in what I must not.

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Don't laugh, I hammed it up.