I would say that I am comfortably good at most things I try my hand at. Most of all, I feel enjoyment in reading and writing. These joys have been learned from others and have been self-taught. I discovered such joys when I was young. I have kept them growing along side me; from childhood to young adult. After a time I found that I could use such hobbies as strengths in my schoolwork. Now, in the present, I can see the full potential of childhood hobbies. More then ever I seek to make what has become passable into wonderful.
I was so proud that I could make out the words when I first began reading that I found I could not stop. Writing came soon after and had the same effect. When I began to dislike the out come of the story, I changed the books I read to fit my own personal entertainment. Soon after I started to make up my own stories. I have never been able stop turning simple everyday actions into words in a gripping tale. Since it has become apparent that my family grew tired of such narrations, my tendency is to keep them in an everlasting story within my mind. My hope is to one day be able to copy them down on paper to share with others in a chance to inspire them as I have been.
Many teachers have told my that my writing is still ignorant but has potential to become something great, like a power that only needs to be tamed. My family members have told me that I live my life though books and it is unhealthy. That I live in a world completely my own, where only things that I say exist roam. As my reality became shattered when I was young, I agree that I have retreated unto myself. It is a habit that I am currently trying to break. Once started out as a hobby became more so; both actions have become my source of comfort, my escape.
Like life itself, my childhood shadow will evolve yet again. What had started out as a simple hobby evolved into my escape. Now, my reading and writing will become more. Through discipline that I truthfully admit I do not have, I will make both actions better. I will read more compelling nonfiction and write stronger works of literature. Perhaps, one day will see all the growing and enjoyable work come to a lucrative end.
When looking back, my writing and reading seem like childhood friends; simply loyal, understanding and nonjudgmental. Just I have, these friends have grown. For now, I shall hold on to these moments of pure wonder and haven. As with all teenagers, my writing is currently revolting, unbalanced and without structure; parallel to the genera reading I am currently indisposed with. Over time and a whole lot of self-discipline, both enjoyments will become full of false wisdom, a comfort to their minions and model citizens. The future seems bright with possibilities for both of us.
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