I was probably just shy of 6 years old, a young boy who was so terribly scared of the dark that I had to have my mom read to me at night, inevitably putting me to sleep and creating a safe environment to turn the lights off.

I was being read The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle, a rather repetitive piece which proved a staple for my nightly routine as a kindergartner. I remember being fascinated by each and every interval of food consumed by this very hungry, green caterpillar, starting with one apple and making his way to five oranges. I laughed at the thought of a caterpillar eating five apples, taking the shape of an enlarged slug instead of one resembling a caterpillar. How could a caterpillar even fit five oranges in its stomach, if even one apple? I thought. The now-extremely enlarged caterpillar went into his cocoon, snuggled warm and resting after his feast. Then and there, I imagined myself as the caterpillar, snuggled warm in my own cocoon of dozens of blankets, as cozy as one could be. No more doing word search and crossword homework puzzles, addition and subtraction tables, or practicing my ABC’s. Just wrapped up in euphoria, not a care in the world. I faintly hear my mom whisper the final words of the book: A beautiful butterfly! 

Throughout kindergarten and the first half of elementary school, books were all the rave. Frankly, I never understood why, when being driven past the local high school, everyone was so attached to their iPods and cellphones, eyes glued to the screens as if their life depended upon it. I was proud to say that, unlike the more mature children around me, I would come home from school, snuggle up on the couch and read, always thinking of the caterpillar in his cocoon. Third grade then came along— and with it, reading assignments, a topic so dreaded by fellow students. Truthfully, these assignments entertained me, provided me with an escape from the formalities of life. As other students complained about making annotations in their texts, I happily did so, taking pride in underlining, circling, and writing in the margins for every detail I uncovered or question that dawned upon me. 

But third grade didn’t just mark reading assignments- on December 25, it presented to me an iPad. That Christmas Day, not a single book crossed my mind. Three weeks later, and the new Hunger Games Trilogy— a gift which I had also asked for— still remained untouched. Unknowingly, I had just come to understand the minds of all the high school-students whom I had once ridiculed. After school, I no longer thought of the next sentence, the next chapter, or the next book I would come to read. Those thoughts had been replaced by the thousands of pixels crowding the 10-inch iPad screen. Soon, I began wondering how reading— and not such collections of pixels— had captivated me for so many years. Why spend hours searching for happiness from a book’s ending, when such an ending could be reached in a matter of minutes on a screen? 

Sometimes I wish I could enjoy reading the same. Many share the same experience, while claiming that school has taken the fun out of reading. Though I think this is a part of it, I cannot act like I am not to blame for my falling out with reading. People consume me. Devices consume me. School consumes me. In the five minutes I have between classes, do I read? In the ten minutes waiting in a hotel lobby, do I read? When expecting my friends to arrive, do I read? The answer is quite simple— no, I do not read. But can I read? Yes. So, for me, the real question is— why not? 

This question resurfaces each and every time I read a new book. Between mundane annotations and often pure disinterest, I still always manage, in each and every piece of literature, to find that reason why. I reminisce on the reading I did knowing I was gaining knowledge, gaining purpose, and gathering enjoyment. An attitude towards reading based around rationale, reasoning, and reward. A reward for reaching the end of a book, for following a story and its emotions, characters, and lessons. When the end in literature is reached, there is nothing more imbued with such fulfillment. Yet, after each and every conclusion and cliffhanger, a book is never again willingly picked up. 

Part of my reading journey has been accepting this unwillingness to read, to pick up a book, and properly invest a good chunk of time in absorbing its contents. Perhaps this acceptance is justified, or perhaps not. But what I am certain about is that reading— no matter how small of a section of my brain it occupies or how much of my heart it fills— is and will be a facet of my life. When and how I utilize this part of myself, like most things in life, is under my control. Choosing to be a reader is choosing to read, and choosing to read, for most people, is choosing the hard path forward. But in a world full of easy satisfaction, perhaps a little struggle wouldn’t be for the worst.

—Aarohan Joshi