Enchanted Fairytales and Books in Shining Armor || Zenas Agnila

I'm a sucker for books with fairy tales, but most times these books, they are one in themselves.

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"TAY LET'S GO INSIDEEE!" I screamed excitedly at the top of my lungs and tightly held my startled father's hand as our peaceful stroll down the glossy, murmuring hallways of Robinsons Marasbaras was interrupted by my kindergarten self's enthusiastic screeches at the sight of a newly opened secondhand bookstore. Directly above the store entrance displayed the bright green signage carrying its name -"BOOKSALE", presenting itself in capital letters in its distinctive large, white font. I could see through the squeeky clean glass of the establishment a beautiful, neverending litany of books and novels, stacked neatly in its different shelves, with a few haphazardly scattered all over the room by semi-intrigued customers who didn't bother putting them back to their respective places after deciding the plots were too bland for their liking. What may have looked like another dull library inside a mall for most was a raging, endless fairytale castle for me and my sister. And together, we navigated through its ruined citadels and ruled the gargantuan kingdom of Booksale. It was quite uncanny for two twin five year-olds to be circling around this territory, for children were quite a sight to behold in a place like this, and the space was usually populated by either middle-aged men flipping through the pages of financial self-help books, or worn-out college students looking for reviewers at cheaper prices. Nonetheless, we ran and sorted through titles, quietly skimming through books that piqued our interest, and, growing up with Disney cartoons, our eyes were set on ones with their familiar stories and colorful covers, flipping through the pages that became more interesting than the one before, and Tatay was waiting in kind, fatherly patience by the cashier for our little adventure to cease fire. And when it did, he agreed to buy us a book to share, on the sneaky condition that we should be able to read its title in perfect English diction. My sister grabbed the Disney book we had been eyeing on since the start of our little endeavour and we slowly pronounced the title on its bright indigo green covering. "Follow...Your...Nose...Donald...", we dictated in careful unison as we followed our fingers running through each syllable of its title. Tatay, jokingly playing the harsh critic, was satisfied with our performance, turned to his wallet, and the rest was pure, blissful history. That night, we left the kingdom of Booksale and came home holding more than just a meager cartoon kid's book, but with a fire that ignited my fiery passion for reading -the start of a beautiful fairytale with books as my knight in shining armor.

My family thrived on reading and before we knew it, our house shelves held more occupants than it could carry, consisting of a mixture of book my mother bought her daughters, and some cheerfully given by family friends who grew out of the childish genres.

Now my range has reached fantasy, adult fiction, historical fiction, romance, drama, thriller, and coming-of-age novels, a far cry from my once immature taste in books - reading them in the toilet, in waiting for my turn in the barbershop, in my elementary school library, while eating breakfast, and even stealing a chapter or two before turning off the lights of my room for nighttime shut-eye.

Books, I found, were one way to widen my vocabulary, learn deep jargon, and ultimately help me write better. These were the technical aspects I sought for in them. Yet the most beautiful part about them was that they were my friend, and somehow, my hero.

Books were my shelter, my escape when the world got too real. Those strings of words holding up each paper page was an open invitation to a world far different from my own, one where I could freely travel without having to move a single muscle. The conundrum and chaos that each plotline brought me was adrenaline to my body. Books made me bawl my eyes out at the death of a favorite character, made me laugh too hard at dark-humored jokes, made me slap my seat's handrest as the hesitant lover finally confesses their feelings to their blushing muse, and took me at the edge of my seat as the rugged hero fights his elephantine dragons.

In the chaos of the storylines, I found peace. Peace of being lost in the world of my novel and in leaving the definition of words to my heart's imagination and mirth.

Funnily enough, words alone cannot describe how reading is a huge part of me - like an extended limb - that makes me whole. Yet one thing is certain - books were, and still are, the chevalier knight to my damsel in distress - the paladin saving me from the enigma of true life, and leading me on to the paperback kingdom of freedom, folklore, and infinite fairytales.