I was and still am obsessed with words. They can sting and brighten, soothe and choke in the same instance. The same word said in a different tone can feel like the world is crushing under someone’s feet, at sea; A parting that divides context and literacy.

As a kid, around 5th grade, I couldn’t bring myself to play outside. It frustrated me. So, I spent a lot of outside time in the library, befriending books and their rotating keepers. I swore to myself that I will own an exhaustive collection, a dictionary of my own.

With every library visit, I’d continue through the alphabet, reading sections at a time until I finished. I was young and consciously didn’t retain much but kept myself entertained. What I knew was the dictionary would always be there, no one was allowed to check it out. It sat on throne, a podium at the entrance. My small hands would carry it to a nearby table with confidence in my ritualistic routine, spotting patterns and relationships between words.

If I knew all the words there is to know, I can know all there is to know; As if it were so and a juvenile attempt.