No longer could I spend all my time trying out the delicious foods at this new restaurant or learning from the displays at the rare exhibit.
Now my weekends were filled with daunting math textbooks, designed to help me conquer the beast of numbers.
My brother and I had spent most of our childhood wandering around the woods, creating fantasy worlds akin to those that we read about.\r\n\r\n My family has books where other families have religion, as well as books where other families have furniture.
Our coffee and tea mugs often perch haphazardly on shifting geological structures of multicolored novels.
I was well into my fourth month post injury, with no real signs of progress. That summer, it seemed unthinkable that either Jane or I could carry on with our lives after experiencing the horror of the red room.\r\n\r\n The most recent time I read , I was working at a center that provides temporary housing for homeless women and preschool education for their children.
Reading made the pain almost indescribably worse, yet I couldn’t resist. There, I observed many kinds of metaphorical red rooms.
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Here is the explanation for my desire to do more, learn more, and see more.
My parents aided these passions, constantly introducing me to new cultures and new places.