Parents teach their kids the foundation of living, through one language. Language teaches people how to communicate, how to express opinions, emotions, how to get by. I was blessed to be born in a family where more than one language was spoken, but I always felt like language never satisfied me one hundred percent. You see as a child I used to try so hard to engulf myself in the realities of the unknown that authors spent so much time writing, and sometimes it worked. Just for a short while. I used to envy kids that discussed the new hit series so enthusiastically, watching the descriptive words flow out of their mouths so eloquently, not understanding a thing despite knowing the language. Yeah, I knew English, I knew my native language, but I couldn’t feel the impact of the languages I spoke. I struggled with feeling words, thinking deeply about what the meaning of some things said are. I wanted to learn how to not just listen to someone speaking, but feel what they are trying to say. 

     I soon realized that what I wanted was to be comforted by language, in any way. I wanted to speak to people who were wise, experienced, I wanted to read books that made me raise my eyebrows in realization. What I needed was something to cure my old soul, to give it light so my perception of myself would change, and the way I view the world would magnify itself to what truly matters; living by not just breathing, but feeling alive. 

     I grew up through most of my childhood with this aching emptiness, not really doing anything about it. Then I found a temporary solution. I was able to feel the words of language through music. That’s what kept me by the bay, music. Music that conveyed the English language so simple, yet it never failed to put me in a trance where I deeply ponder what the artist is trying to say and how it connects to every living atom inside of me. I used to plug my cheap five dollar headphones into my ear and seek the comfort of the words artists sang. No other being comforted me as music did, not my pre-teen friends, nor my parents, who taught me the language in the first place.

     Soon enough the effect of music was wearing off, and I was left looking for something more. I decided to speak with my best friend, who was really wise and knew the perfect solution for me every time. She advised that I start reading this book called The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. My mind raced with so many doubts, “ why would I read a child’s book?”, “ I never liked reading so how is this going to help?”, etc. I delayed every moment I could’ve had to read this book, I was afraid the expectations I had with this book would let me down. 

     The moment I picked up this book, I was shocked. Adrenaline raced through the course of my veins with every word, my mind inhaled every detail the book laid, my heart fed on the words wholeheartedly, and my soul felt so free. Everything clicked, I felt so touched. I did not find myself creating a dreamland to imagine what the story would have looked like, but I kept my reality grounded and took in every lesson I could possibly learn from this book, and stored it in my heart to use in the present and future, and to share it with my loved ones. From the pages of the book, the written language that I spoke and read my whole life, I felt the words impact me and mold my perception of myself and the perception of the world. The reason why I felt so impacted by the words Antoine illustrated, was because his character resembles me in a way. My younger self needed something that spoke to me, not a Junie B Jones Series, or a Harry Potter Series. Don’t get me wrong, I love these books, I would read these types of books without hesitation, but as I’m continuously discovering myself, I would love to read more books that I can relate to myself and my situations in the real world.  

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