I’ve always been good with words.
Always. As a kid, I would reason/talk my way out of trouble. My mum and primary school teachers can testify to that. I’ve seldom been punished for the things I do, if ever, because I can out talk those adults. Back in secondary school, I was the sweet talker. I could talk my female classmates into doing anything… when I’m online. I made girls from IRC fall for me… without even meeting. Sweet talking my way into those girls’ hearts was pretty easy.
Face to face, it’s another thing. But that’s material for another post. The thing is… I love the English language. I love words. Just by words alone, I can express who I am. I can express what I am feeling at the moment – I can make people cry with me, laugh with me, frown at me for being plain silly… all these and more just through the words that come out of me.
How is this possible? I… I am a bookworm. You’d never spot me NOT lugging a book around in primary school. And I wasn’t your typical kid that only read Pokemon comics and jizz. I started reading novels pretty early. Mainly fantasy tales. Tales of magic, wizardry and dragons. Medieval tales containing kings, knights saving princesses, towering castles of majestic portions. Tales of vampires, romance and morbid fascinations. I was so good my teachers wanted me to write plays (and our class acted them out), take part in competitions and even shared what they read with me.
That being said… how is it that I am now someone with no creativity or imagination? Why are my grades so darn bad? Why am I languishing in… this state?
Sigh.
