I can blink and I can breath.

When I was four I remember learning to read. I remember sitting on my Mother's lap and starring at the jumble of letters I recognized from the alphabet. I remember being amazed that she could look down at them and make them not only into words but into a story. I remember sitting and studying the smooth cardboard flash cards that had little black pictures of the words I was supposed to be reading. I remember frustrating hours spent on 'Hooked on Phonics' and the picture of the mime on the box. I remember crying because I couldn't decipher this code that everyone but me seemed to understand. Yes, I remember the trials and suffering of learning to read, but I also remember the pure magic of reading my first book. I remember loving the story just as much as the feeling of accomplishment. I remember feeling heartbroken for poor Pretzel, the weenie dog when Greta, the love of his life paid no attention to him. I remember feeling terrified when Greta fell in the deep whole and couldn't get out. I remember feeling overjoyed when pretzel saved her, and they lived happily ever after. I remember starting to read chapter books and more than the sense of maturity that all children get from finally reading a chapter, I remember not wanting to wait another whole day for the next chapter. I remember reading the 'Harry Potter' books and being lost in a wondrous mythical world for days at a time. I remember finishing books and feeling whole, like reading the book made me that much more real. I remember receiving reading assignments and secretly being excited while my classmates groaned. 

I love to read, to live in a different world, to experience someone else's story. 

I can blink and I can breath, but to live I must read.