Reading was food for my soul.

            When I was younger, I couldn't live through a week without getting a new book. If I already had the latest Sweet Valley Twins, Sweet Valley Kids and Babysitters Club, it didn't matter. That just meant it was an opportunity to discover a new R.L. Stine, Christopher Pike, Nancy Drew, or some other new book that would've gathered dust on National Bookstore's shelves.

            I would read as much as three books a day. My reading speed was up to 100-200 pages per hour. I was always alone on the SRA's highest reading level. It held such great pride to stride up to that big box and be the only one pulling out the red readings. It took weeks before anyone else could catch up, and by then, I was half done with the SRA readings.

            As I grew older, I could read an entire Danielle Steel in one day, including breaks. I begged my mom to lend me her Danielle Steel collection, and I devoured them over a summer. I tried other books, just as adult, just as long. And I devoured them too.

            Then somehow, reading became more tedious. I couldn't get past a page of History readings. Words on my reading for Political Science jumbled together and managed to make no sense whatsoever. Even readings for Communications Research seemed to scream out, "Duh!!!" and yet they failed to register in my mind.

            Reading became a challenge. It takes a lot of willpower to sit down, pick up the book, and try to immerse myself into another world. To try and catch the author's rhythm, to get caught up in its innate cadence, to move with the rise and fall of the words.

            And somehow, I would move with the words. I would catch the rhythm... and remember the million other things I forgot to do. Like email my orgmates. Like grab a bite. Like take the bathroom break that was an hour overdue. And when I return to the welcoming world I so rudely abandoned, the rhythm would be gone. Like a lover rebuffed, it seems to hide the very key that will allow me entrance into this world. And it is a struggle all over again.

            It takes a week to get through a book, when I need to be done in a day.

            When I need to be reading five different things in a day, my mind can only handle one thing.

            I seem to be regressing. Who knows, maybe I'll suddenly find myself back with Dr. Seuss.