There are those that bore me, those that appeal for a little while, and those I am forced to swallow – like a daily dose of vitamin C. But there are those that beguile effortlessly I lose myself in them.
The dilemma when I start reading a book that enthralls me is that I pay more than enough homage to it. I get detached to reality that I force myself to make a mental note that it’s all fiction and a figment of another man’s imagination. The characters don’t exist despite the longing that they do. Some characters are as real as you want them to be, but there are those that you know are also the writer’s depiction of what she could only hope for. So I attribute the blame to the author – how she can create and frustrate at the same time, how much she builds up a character only to afflict the reader with its nonexistence. Well, there could be some truth to its existence. But only in another world that only the mind can contain – nowhere else.
I’ve had those moments of fascination when I find myself too engrossed to drop the book, too wrapped up to acknowledge my hunger but sentient enough of a looming headache I still reach out for the anti-radiation glasses when in front of my laptop, gulp a glass of water and munch on some bread. I could trick my brain so easily when I’m in this state.
It has been a while since I’ve actually gorged on plots and storylines, aware of my own feebleness to disengage and the penchant to drift off. At some point, I thought I totally lost interest – that I’d never lose myself in any story again. But I’m awfully good at second-guessing myself.
The holy week has left me enough time to fritter away, left in the solitude of my dorm room. The halls are dissonantly still and unforgiving with their constant reminder of this seclusion. The rooms are almost empty save for some lit ones. Almost all of the residents went home to their families leaving less than a quarter of us to ourselves. And with a place to myself, there is further melancholy. But with this unwarranted privacy, my roommate left me with something to keep sane – or so she thought.
She left me with a copy of The Hunger Games. It was a split second decision to read it because I was too keen to find out what happened in the next two books. Watching the movie left me in a cliffhanger just when I’m too eager to move forward. Not until you read the first installment. I can remember her eagerness and how much she’s exerted the effort to convince me I must set off at the inception as you would any other story.
And so I did if only to comply with the minimum requirement of giving the book some justice. And happy I did. As always, the text was a far cry to the movie. But I must remind myself that motion pictures can only do so much when it comes to accommodating every detail, every character and element. I have them to thank for enhancing the mental images of the scenes and the settings of the account.
I couldn’t help my frustration, though. They cut off a lot – and I mean a lot lot. No matter, my mind worked better envisioning, bringing the characters to life until I reach the end when I had to contend with the fact that they’re a fabrication with a thesis so close to reality and a post-apocalyptic setting that’s so far off.
I remind myself that, after failing to stop the tears from flowing. The author worked wonders in reaching my heart – my heart that was once always enclosed with fences and walls. I melted because I felt for Katniss when she achingly realized memories are somewhat an infinite container of love that when broken may be irreparable. I hated the fact that she flipflopped on every emotion – no, that she wouldn’t admit to herself that she loved and that she had to choose. I crumbled in the last page when it took her so long to give full access to her heart. I crumbled because I liked Peeta. I love his character so much I almost wish he was real.
But I snap back to reality and he’s not. He’s just a figment of Collins’ brilliant imagination – too good to be true. But deep down, there’s this indubitable hope – almost ludicrous – that such a character exists, or fractions of him at least.
I finished all three books in two days, only occasionally interrupted by a friend for dinner before I lunge back in my head. I finish the trilogy with half a heart in admission that I am a hopeless romantic – that no matter how I puke at the very idea, I am and I’m as normal as any woman who finds the thought of security comforting, of love promising and the possibility of loss maddening.
I relate to the characters – of who I am, how much of them I am, and how much of them are the people around me. As I detach myself gradually, I realize that this medium of writing has a magical touch to it, that in some part of the globe, there are those that feel like you and me. I remember my frustration in travelling, or the lack thereof, and the consciousness of my limited worldview and that in travelling I know I could expand it to unthinkable lengths.
But there is a cheaper alternative and an efficient one at that. It’s not the interaction those social networking sites usher in. Nor is it the enforced commerce of the television. It’s one begotten by words, how they expand one’s vision so simply even when it’s all in your head. You can curl up under the oak tree or in a corner of your bed and find yourself some place else, your perspective of the world expanding word by word and page by page.
I was reading Jane Eyre before I had Collins prescribed as a breather. It was a good imposition though. Even in classics, I find myself – in bits and pieces, sometimes in a lump. They’re fiction and I keep reminding myself that – but when I cross the threshold, I let the current take me and allow myself the deluge. But I’m careful to reach the surface and breathe in for some air.
All it took me was two days, three maybe, to infuse contemplation and regain equilibrium. Of course, there’s more to this entry than just the beauty of literature. It digs deep. I find myself when I linger, afforded retreat, with a medium to sketch an identity. I come full circle, traversing a wider circle each time. #
