The Future of John's Literacy

Sometime last week, I realized that I'd stopped reading. I don't mean that I couldn't read, or didn't want to, but that I'd stopped. I hadn't read a new book in weeks, months even. It bothered me alot. I remembered fond afternoons and mornings spent in peaceful contemplation of a James Patterson novel, or car trips where I'd soar on the back of a Paolinian dragon across Alagaesia. But now I spent mornings and evenings longing to fall asleep and on car trips I'd tune out the world with Fallout Boy (but lets be honest they're awesome).
Anyways, back to the issue at hand- I wasn't reading, and I felt normal to me. It felt ordinary. And I hated it. So faster than a bolt of lightning from Mount Olympus, I rushed to the nearest bookshelf, and from it I extracted a likely loking volume- The Call of the Wild. I settled down, cracked the cover, and at once was lost in the hard, brutal world of the Alaskan wilderness. I growled at cruel masters and gripped tightly to the ice when the team broke through. I dug into the snow and hid from the cold wind, and I howled as a wolf as the pack chased a snowshoe hare through the woods.
I had found it again- the world of words and papers and ink, which combine in the charmed pot of the human mind to open a magic portal into the human soul. Because I didn't go to Alaska with Buck, I was Buck, and I was in the part of my soul that is that dominant primordial beast, the one that howls with the wolves and fights for survival-beautiful, strong, harsh.

After finding this world again, I will not lose it again. I will read White Fang, and Chasing redbird, and the Color Purple, and Black beauty and a Farewell to Arms and the Lord of the rings and An interview with a vampire and the Hunrting of the Snark and Antigone and Julis Ceasar and To Kill a Mockingbird. And as I read them, my soul will grow to find all the places the words will tske me, and I shall never, ever feel ordinary again. I can't start on this soon enough.