Another day, another tiny poem, and this one is cheerful for a change. It is an eight-line reflection on the struggle of making sense of black marks on white paper, and the sheer exhilaration that follows the achievement of the goal.

I do not remember a time when I couldn't read. I can't imagine what a word much look like when one's brain is not busy interpreting and comprehending it.But I do know what is meant by the page becoming transparent and ceasing to exist. Personally, I can draw a parallel with attempting to read in a noisy room; the translucency of the page is inversely proportional to the noise level.

I like the exclamation mark at the end of the last line. It perfectly complements the "all by myself" immediately before it, summing up childish exuberance extremely well.