Growing up, I was the quiet child, the one who was always lost in her thoughts. I engaged with the world through the abstractness of my intellect. It felt like a superpower, being able to blow out bubbles of thoughts and stories and then, to unleash them onto the pages of my diaries where they would stay with me as keepsakes: recording the train of my thoughts discovering new landscapes.
The power to create an alternate reality in my mind when I read books or watched movies had me hooked. I had an unquenchable thirst to know more, to feel more, to encounter new cultures, peoples and ideas through stories.
All I needed was a good story and I would lose myself in it for hours. I remember when I was very young, I always felt I was a character in a book and I would see myself as a third person, witnessing my life from a distance. My thoughts often took on a narrative complete with beginnings, conflicts, resolutions and an end, punctuated with colorful dialogue and characters. Major life events and everyone around me became the background and characters of my stories and my diaries were my personal storybooks. The books I read were flights of fantasy that felt more real than my actual life.
I remember when I was very young, I always felt I was a character in a book and I would see myself as a third person, witnessing my life from a distance.
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