The sweetness of cinnamon and spice greet you as you enter the door. Observing the row of clumsily placed shows you stop to remove your own. Your eyes take in everything that your nose announces. After adjusting to the dim lighting, you take in a room full of mahogany wood, burgundy curtains and a brown oriental rug; my mother's taste warrants caution for all who encounter it. In the midst of this, are all of my books. Lots and lots of books.

Bought secondhand, these books have accompanied many wayfarers, daydreamers, and gypsies, like me.

I used to read and I used to write, in that order. I appreciated the solace of a diary in a household that seemed more circus than home. I saw books as public diaries that scale the magnitude of this great big world. As removed from my life as some of the books were, I started reading out of loneliness. I found friendship in the siblings Meg and Charles Wallace of "A Wrinkle in Time."

I left the discomfort of being a dark-skinned girl with natural hair in the pages of "Star Girl." I found beauty in being a dark skinned girl with natural hair in reading "Harlem Sweeties" by Langston Hughes. All of these experiences that I shared with my heroines were externalities of just wanting to pass time. There was no sacrosanctity or fuss over picking up a book, I just would.

Describing ideas and emotion in writing used to be as natural as my disdain for anyone who could dare to love the movie version over a book, unless it's the Bible--that's a lot of reading, and we all know the ending. I would write all sorts of things, responses to songs I liked, revisions of songs I didn't like, short stories, beginnings of a few books, fan-mail, and things like 'I loaf you' on post-it notes for my little brother's lunches.

At some point, this came to an end. As with these kinds of things, I'm not really sure what, when, where or how that definitive point came to be. I am, however, woefully aware of its consequences.

I've yet to research or to stumble upon the accuracy of any of my experiences, but as they're true to me, I'll share anyway. On a basic level, there is the fact that I don't remember grammar and vocabulary as well as I used to. I also feel less able to focus as well as I used to, something about reading all the time made it really easy for me to tune out static around me and be able to get things done.

On a greater level, the absence of reading has greatly impacted my ability to convey meaning. Naturally, the more abstract an idea is the harder it is for me to articulate. The worst part is, it's not necessarily harder for me to understand abstract ideas (though I'm sure it is) it's the fact that I know what I mean and how I feel, I'm just not so good at relaying that information to you. (That was a struggle.)

I can't help but feel like my world has gotten less colorful. And so, I have taken on the challenge to recommit myself to engaging art, books and literature as a part of my quotidian routine. I have also committed to writing for Odyssey as a way to flex some old brain muscles that I've forgotten how to use. Please join me on this journey and do take it easy on me, I'm new around here.