The origin of my literacy

A lot of people helped me during the early years of my literacy and writing journey. Among these people were my parents, friends, family relations, and teachers. The only way I figured to make the most of the situation was by making further notable improvements to my literary skills, although, if I was being honest, I didn’t think of it that way back then. Instead, I thought if I could learn more about languages, I could be able to read books written in a different language, and if I learned to write in the language, I might be able to write personal stuff that might not be easily deciphered by interested people, and when asked, I could say it in that same language if they don’t get it. That's not my problem; the feeling would be really exciting.

This might sound weird to say out loud, but the books besides the people I met along the way inspired me. I was bored, not that I didn’t have anything better to do; I just did it on time and well enough not to require any further correction, but over time the process became boring. There might be other things I can’t say, but the point was that the books made me forget, and there's also the language. There is something interesting about it and the people who speak the language; hearing the language being spoken was just different, and I guess that’s what also piqued my interest in literature and writing. I really enjoy learning literacy, writing, and speaking.

What discouraged me and still does is that the books are always repeated, especially the interesting ones; then they END, and then I get bored again. My school back home might have also played a part in that, and looking back at it now, it wasn't really my fault, but won't deny I wouldn't be the person I today if I hadn't attended that specific school. My hands hurt a lot holding the pen and pencil every single day for the whole school year, copying notes, and solving math problems like it's water, and it's not like the notes are short; they are large depending on the course you take. Back home, you take the same course as everybody else, math took math English English, and if you don't get your notes and homework done, you get punished, and that's something you want to take part in if you behind has anything to say about, but if you are a masochist, you're built differently, that's all I have to say on that topic. What frustrated me was not the subject but the students; they were so good at lying, and I was so gullible in believing what they said at that time. Looking back at it now, that was also very obvious. I just hope not to be used like that again, because the feeling hurts a lot.

If I had a role model or someone I looked up to, I may or may not have seen it that way. I always saw things differently and never really had a lot of friends I trusted, untrusted, and associated with. We talked but we weren’t friends, but things began to change when I saw them playing and talking with others. I didn't really feel like talking, and the book just helped me focus and just relax. Not that playing with others doesn't help; I am just one of those people who like what they like and don't care until what they hold close to their hearts gets taken, and that, I guess, is my reverse scale.

But I didn't only get human help, I got; This experience taught me something as well, and this lesson was that “knowledge on its own is meaningless, but a lack of knowledge when needed for situations is uncomfortable; however, the general lack of knowledge on any topic is just “expressive”, meaning it’s conflicting. This is because you have the key to a treasure, but you just lack the IQ or knowledge to unlock the treasure. When that happens, the result is, for lack of a better word, an expressive look that appears on the face.