Gabriel Hale May 25 th , 2014 English comp. 1
Gabriel Hale
Pearson, Eden
English comp.1, Section E1
June 4 th , 2014
Literatures Guarded Journeys
Remember every night getting into bed and pondering the day? Right before the sandman takes you away for the night, you have one more adventure. Not one physically, but one that is mentally composed, with the detail orchestrated from the words in a book. This will be your grandest journey yet; even as night’s grasp closes in on your thoughts, it’s a place where you can leap walls, run as fast as a speeding bullet, and where your limit is only in your imagination. Reading was special as a child, not only in the way it helps people learn, but how the books are tailored to foster the slightest sounds of creativity and turn them into their very own symphony of imagination.
As a child, my nightly reading was as action-packed as any video game, more adventurous than any television show, and taught me more than any teacher could. I remember the musty smell of the pages that stained every library book when I opened it. I remember the painful vengeance I acquired at every word that I would struggle to pronounce, as it taunted me from the tip of my tongue. Also the renewed sense of pride I felt as I tackled it one letter at a time until it gracefully rolled from my lips in a fluent tone. All my nights weren’t the same, but generally, they followed the same guidelines and they all came together in the same way.
I would be done from my dinner and; as always, Mom made something delicious. The house still smelled of the evening’s meal wafting in the air as I passed by, trying ever so manically to slip on through without being detected as, so I wouldn’t have to hear the same old

Gabriel Hale May 25 th , 2014 English comp. 1 nightly spiel. She would always say to me, “Go get ready for bed, and remember to read,” and as a nine year-old, I knew all there was to know and didn’t need her to remind me, of course. As
I trudged to my room in agony, dragging my hand across the walls, it was time for bed, and I was going a lovely speed that could only be described as watching a snail crawl up-hill because it was that time of night. This all caused by the speech she spouts about the importance of a good book in my life, I then arrive to my room looking back at my mom seeking approval of every nine year-old’s favorite question, “Can I stay up one more hour? That’s it, I swear.”
Instead she turns up the volume on her evening show in disregard. This in turn answers my question, and I furiously slump over into bed, contemplating on why God does this to me. I lightly roll to my bedside, and look at my options of literature for the evening, as they change frequently due to my mother wanting me to learn new things. I choose a classic book; it was a
5 th grade generalized version following a soldier through a World War II, because I was feeling up to the challenge, as I turned the first pages, my mind begins to flow with the fountain of creativity that being so young supplies.
I remember this book in particular as it was the reason for me staying up hours on end. I skipped the prologue because it was boring and I was in need of the action. It began with the morning of Pearl Harbor at 8:00 am on December 7 th , 1941. I began my reading, I found myself getting into a motion of fluency when I read, to the point you could vaguely catch a mumble in my voice of the words effortlessly racing from my mind to voice box. This competition still plagues me today, as I find myself thinking faster than my mouth can pronounce the words that come to mind. I turn the pages of the dilapidated book, I feel the cold sting me, as if I feel the morning chill crawl up my spine as this soldier did on that faithful morning, as the soldier spoke

Gabriel Hale May 25 th , 2014 English comp. 1 with a since of pride in his duty as a sailor I felt as if I was present in the conversation and could feel the brash and boldness in his voice. I have no recollection if these were his own memories, or a firsthand account of the devastation as told by another narrator. When the story was told of the first bombs to strike that morning, I could envision the thundering as if the ground was made of glass, the bombs devastating it relentlessly, the sirens crying out to signal the danger that was imminently looming overhead. The panic that was painting the streets to be a picture of chaos, as the world these people knew was coming to screeching halt for most, but also an abrupt end for some, unfortunately. I had created in my own mind a masterpiece, one where my world was derived from the book, but my imagination had allowed me to exist in the story.
By the time I had read through those first few chapters, I could feel my the sleepiness in my eyes like my eyelids were made of lead, my voice had slowed to but a murmur. As I turned the last page, I heard a familiar knock on my door, to tell me that it was time for bed. As I switched out my light, I gradually rolled over with one thought on my mind, “when could I continue tomorrow?”
This wasn’t a particularly special occasion of reading I experienced, but it’s the first time
I remember reading by myself without my mother’s assistance on a variety of words. It could be compared to graduating; it’s the first time I could remember feeling a sense of accomplishment in a literary subject matter. This memory also shows the connection of reading to our own creativity and imagination, which is essential for building our educational progress. That’s why I feel a story like this holds so much importance in my life; it reflects not only a time that I experienced reading so vividly, but also acknowledges how much I have achieved in the years since. My adventure may have indeed ended for that night, but the best part was because I

Gabriel Hale May 25 th , 2014 English comp. 1 couldn’t wait to continue it tomorrow. Always remember, right before the sandman takes you away for the night, you have one more adventure, and it could be your greatest masterpiece yet.