I have a memory of a young girl opening a book.
It is quite a large book for her tiny, delicate hands.
She looks as though a light gust of wind could blow her away and yet she is holding the book with careful hands.
In the memory she leafing through the book not quite understanding what is being said.
She had just recently learned how to read.
Such a large book was astonishing to her naïve eyes.
How does a person read a large book like this is what she was thinking.
Marveling at the fact she decides to one day read the large book and any large book alike.
It was a dream, an innocent little thought.
Soon enough another dream was blossoming in the young girl.
As she grew up she decided that one day she'd write books.
With hands that had grown a slight bit she would write until her fingers were stained with ink and the pages filled.
It was pure happiness.
But at one point the young girl becomes an adult with a memory that would fail her.
She could no longer remember the same happiness she would receive from the simple existence of literature.
No longer did the pages excite her, for some reason the pages would intimidate her instead.
She became fearful of those same words.
The words she could no longer write.
For some reason they became a memory she does not understand.
Why?
I don't understand anymore.