For years books have effectively played the part of entertainment as well as providing knowledge.
I was barely out of middle school when I got hooked onto the habit. Ever since, my mother has found it practically impossible to pry me apart from these wondrous creations. It got to such an extreme height of addiction where, I would profusely beg my friends to issue books for me from the library. Unable to contain myself with the “one book per week” allotted to us students, I would devour the pages of these books, mesmerised and spellbound. Soon I could easily read up atleast 2-3 books a week & yet my hunger for more refused to die down. I was becoming more greedy! 😛
Somewhere along the line, I started getting attached to the characters. Sympathising with them, I would always find bits and pieces of myself in these characters. What I ought to remind myself is that “its fiction. None of that is real”. But it became easier to overlook such criteria. If the protagonist was hurting, I’d get pangs too. That is the problem with getting too attached. That is the problem with not being able to keep things at an arms distance.
Fiction is nothing but a peek at something that is not real or perhaps could be metaphoric for something real. But the stories woven from scratch by many intelligible authors, stringed together with human emotions seemed nothing but true in all sincerity.
Its not up until recently that I began realizing the effect these stories have on me. Evoking the soft side in me that rarely makes an appearance otherwise. I would sit shocked, rendered speechless by the enormity of a sharp ending of a book. Slowly, separating all the jumbled thoughts, I have to firmly remind myself that they are not true but just a figment of someone’s creative imagination. These books have as much power over me as a voodoo puppet would have on its victim. Dragging me into a land of oblivion , everything else subsides to the back of my mind.
For better or for worse, they have always kept me company. Never truly alone, I am comforted by the feel of pages beneath my finger tips and the smell that lingers on newly published books (as well as those which have seen a good deal of wear and tear in its time).
Such is an addiction, that I refuse to give up. That I wish to carry with me, for the rest of my vigorous life.