When I was young I didn’t read very much. I didn’t need to. I could go anywhere and be anything I wanted. It was only when I got older that I needed books to help me imagine. Although I outgrew the make believe freedom, I don’t think I ever outgrew the desire to do it.

It’s a miracle that studying English hasn’t killed that. Always trying to understand what the words and stories mean, hasn’t stolen their magical quality. I re-read Peter Pan for a class today. I understand it at a whole new level, but I still love it. It still speaks to me. Maybe that is because I am very much like the bitter narrator. The one who sees everything: the beauty and the faults. Somehow that reality is a much more appealing thing to imagine than the make believe of my childhood.

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