It’s easy to get lost into another reality if we only knew where to look. Words written on dead trees transport us into another plane of existence; one where we feel the full spectrum of emotions as if we’re the ones participating in the adventure, and yet we’re really just sitting down comfortably, racing through the spine and leafing through pages that never seem to end.
And it’s even easier to accept those realities we bring to life in our heads, as we bring more detail to the events, places and people brought into existence by another human’s diligence to put his pen to the paper.
What wondrous adventures! What beautiful places! What interesting people! We start to invest into their reality, take their problems as our own, and often resent the foreboding omnipresence we inherit as their stories are told in parallel. The gift of knowing what is happening all at once, and interpolating what will happen in the future is a sad one, especially as the plot thickens, and the pages thin out.
We forget our own realities, we fly to where the characters are. We take their person, we feel their emotions, we think their thoughts, and we say their words. We’re not who we are anymore, we’ve brought life into another world, another reality, just as the author must have put it.
That’s the power we posses: our free will has enabled us to create worlds with our thoughts, weave stories with our hands, and perhaps, act like gods in those realities… If you take it all in, and look at it from afar, it’s such a sight to see and a powerful thing to behold.
Then, the thinning pages eventually reduce to leaves, and to the last few words. This time, our reality strikes.
I try to breathe slowly, taking the ending the best I could.
All I’m lead to do now is haul my ass to the local bookstore, plop a few hundred for the next book, and lose sleep again over a reality that is both not mine, and created by my mind.
# It’s a struggle sometimes detaching myself from the stories I read, and the characters in them.