I’ve always been a reader. A bookworm, one of those girls whose perfect morning would be defined by a thick novel and a cup of steaming coffee, whittling away the hours curled up in a comfy armchair. From my earliest recollection, I remember knowing my primary school library inside out, stealing my older brother’s fantasy books to read, and skipping past the meagre collection of teenage fiction to the much larger adult collection. I even remember being scolded by my strict religious catholic primary school for bringing The Da Vinci Code to read to school, not that I cared.

I loved books. Fantasy, romance, slice of life, it did not matter as long as it was well written, spinning a tale as vivid as day, as you hold your breath awaiting the next page. And that’s where the magic lies, from merely stringing a few flimsy words together, a story is woven, the reader’s imagination invoked. It doesn’t magically transport you to another world, nothing can do that. But it does take you away from the day in day out of your mundane life. Taking your mind off the constant whisperings of thoughts, overcrowded and bustling in that small space, jostling for prominence. Giving you quiet as each mental word rolls off the tongue, fabricating a brilliant image of colour.

I’m the sort that literally cannot put the book down, impatient for the story. Give me a good book, and I’ll have it finished in a few days no matter the thickness, a week at most. It’s not very beneficial when you have homework piling up on the side, but then again the homework fades from mind from the first word and it is that from which I seek to escape.