Call it inspiration.

I've always been a reader. Well, not always, but I never really minded. When I was in fourth grade, I was crazy about the Goosebumps series. Don't ask me why, but I thought they were the best books out there. I progressed though, to books for teenagers by R.L. Stine. I didn't know why, but I felt sort of embarrassed to go into the Teen section of a bookstore or a library. I hated to admit that I liked those damn books. In eighth grade, my Social Studies teacher Mr. Huitric gave us a list of 100 books that we should read sometime in our lives. I set out to read each and every one of those. I read The Fountainhead and I swear, that's the only book I've ever wanted to emulate the characters of. I convinced myself to become unfeeling and apathetic like the characters. For a while, people equated me with Daria from MTV, so I had to stop. I felt stupid. Anyway, I read more Ayn Rand and Jane Austen and I read a lot of classics. I read them for the sake of reading. I loved the stories and immersed myself in the lives of the characters. Sometimes though, words could not contain me anymore. I felt like dying because everytime my eyes would leave the page it would be back to my life again. My life; my boring life. So the more I read. Sometimes I stop. And I wait for inspiration to read more. Last time I was inspired, I read The Lovely Bones, that was about this time last year. For a time, I wanted to become a novelist. I tried to write stories, but much like my blog, I used pronouns too much. Life had to be experienced in order to be written about. So I'm living. And occassionally I get those inspirations again. And I read and re-read books. And it feels like I've wrapped myself in another life.

I love books. I love reading about other people. I love words. Today is one of those days. I am inspired.