Head In Books

In the past, when I was ten years old, I used to read and escape from the problems of reality.

In those fantasy texts where she could feel calm and happy.

The character, of course, my character.

Because she could be happy while I was at my worst.

So when I felt depressed, I would get nervous and buy books.

Maybe my money was suffering, but it could be okay.

While reading those books I was drinking a chocolate shake.

Because it could be her, that should be me.

A happy character in a green and beautiful field.

I don't care what they say, that was me, the boy who was always into books, dreaming in class.

Why were all the characters so good and had this mysterious past?

I didn't have any kind of past, it was just me, a normal life but feeling invisible in all of it.

Getting bored with it, feeling depressed.

Then, when I was ten, they bullied me because I was from another country.

And then I developed an obsession with books.

When I got home, I went to my room and cried until I couldn't feel anything.

I took a book, tore all the pages and then took some.

My eyes quickly scanned the texts, I began to feel overwhelmed and burned through the pages.

I still remember it, I still have a scar from when I burned my hand.

The next few days, when I was harassed, I remember asking my mother to buy me books.

She was confused but still bought me a lot of books and I read them.

My head was full of books.

-Luz