17 years old

Okay, first post. This should be a bit introductory, yes?

I always claim myself as an old soul, somebody secluded from the things my usual peer feels. Someone unique, yet knows how to blend in well. In a crazy crowd of hormone-driven teens I sit and think of why we live when we are meant to die anyway.

I’m seventeen years old, yet I always knew my mind wasn’t the same age. I used to think maybe something was wrong with me, what with me not being on the same wavelength with the kids my age. But I quickly realized that I am just quite more mature than I appear to be. Having a different outlook, a different point of view from the usual teenagers.

I was introduced to reading books when I was 8 or 9, honestly, I don’t remember. I remember picking up a 120-page pocketbook from the lot of them lying around the house–because my grandma collects and reads them– and curiously scrolling through the pages and reading bits and pieces, until I realized, I finished the book. That led me to pick up another one, and another one. And I became a bookworm. I found the place where I belong. For a child who has a vast imagination, I found my paradise. The place where I can lose myself in those make-believe worlds and think of the stories too vividly.

I treat reading as a big part of who I am now, a big part of how I knew half of what I know now. Half of what I’m capable of doing now, I owe to books.

Even how I am able to express myself, my thoughts and beliefs, I owe to books. So, basically, the strength and decision that led me to start up this blog is something I owe to books.

So, bear with me.

Sometimes, the words of a seventeen year old is enough to wake up the wonderful sleeping soul locked up inside someone too caught up trying to lead a successful yet unhappy life.

Being happy is what always matters. ๐Ÿ™‚


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