When I was younger I was a bookworm. The library was my wonderland, filled with color and rotating bookshelves that I would spin until I found the most appealing spine to pluck from the shelf. The smell of turned pages and fresh rug was both comforting and inviting, and the clicking sounds of the computers nearby made me feel right at home whenever I walked in.
It’s a common saying not to “judge a book by its cover,” but that’s all I did as a child. My importance for aesthetics when it came to book covers was inflated, although my fashion sense certainly wasn’t. I donned colorful jackets and patterned leggings, with those light up sneakers that emulate the essence of a sparkling childhood. My mother would take me there once a week, and together we would select tales of shining princesses and animals, and read them on the couch as soon as we got home. I had no idea how lucky I was. 
As I got older, that thirst for reading persisted. I remember reading my first “chapter book” when I was in first grade, and celebrating my achievement of making it through the first chapter and graduating from the newly childish picture books. Demigod camps and wizard schools engaged my mind in vivid imagery, and I found myself writing my own subpar stories whenever I could. I would illustrate my own picture books, believing myself to be the next up-and-coming children’s book author at the ripe age of eight. I would even play “Librarian” on my living room table, using my bookmark as a scanner for my own books and graciously helping my impatient stuffed animal customers.
In high school we are encouraged to pursue our passions, but time feels like it’s always escaping me as someone who always has homework or a test to be worrying about. My reading list gets larger and larger by the day but remains virtually unpicked. I’ll sit down to read for a bit but then become overwhelmed with the guilt of not working on something else.
I miss it dearly. Any time I’m given an article to read I’m sucked in by the beautiful writing of an author I’ve never heard of and unknowingly make a sort of “stank face” at the perfect composition of words. I’m making a conscious effort to make more time for reading, though. Every day, I’ve begun to bring back at least 30 minutes of a book into my routine. Hopefully, my love of reading will come back stronger than ever.