I turned the last page of the book, relief and dissatisfaction washing over me in alternating waves.
Most people watch movies, read books, listen to music. I don't. I live them. Maybe you're thinking that that's hardly strange or uncommon. If you are, then you don't really understand what I mean by "live".
I don't mean that I'm simply influenced by them; I mean that I immerse in them; I dissolve in them; I become one with them. And when I'm done with them (they 're actually more done with me than I am with them) my pieces get scattered around, like sand blown away by violent winds. It takes them so much time to find each other afterward (it's actually easier to melt into another dream while I'm still in pieces, rather than spend so much effort to put myself together again. After all, it's only a matter of time before I lose myself in yet another world, so why bother becoming whole first? I save myself quite some time and energy that way). And still, torn apart though I am after every journey, there's no denying the joy, the fulfillment I feel. It's all very contradictory.
I suppose that this is something like falling - again and again - in an impossible love and having - again and again - your heart broken. Because these love stories can't have a happy ending. They only have half of that: an ending. They end for you, and they leave you all alone, no matter how much joy they gave you, no matter how much you loved them. They can't commit to you. They can't exist for you. They 're doomed love stories. And between you and them you are the only one whose heart can be broken. So, that's the heart that breaks; yours. But how could you blame these worlds for wanting to go on on their own? They have that right. You can't ask them to hang around just for you, they have more important things to do.
You know that from the beginning, but you 're unable to turn your back on them. Every minute of it, every second of it, you know it's only a matter of time before it's over, but even so you see it through. You make the journey. You live. You love. Then the end comes and you perish again.
But either too soon or too late - it's hard to tell - you fall again. You don't do anything to prevent this. In fact, most of the times you look for it.
I've dreamed and dreamed and dreamed. Each new world a new obsession. And I've lost myself again and again in the folds of the music of yet another song, or the pages of yet another book. And the end of every book is another heartbreak. The end of every song is another loss.
And I get scattered again.
But, before that inevitable end, I have the time of my life. I live like I've never lived before, finding myself revolting against an oppressive regime, or climbing the highest mountain, or becoming a great writer, or finding an exquisite love, or conversing with ancient philosophers, or future geneticists, or powerful wizards of a parallel reality. Exceeding everybody's expectations - mine included. Being thrown into an ocean of difficulties and surviving against the odds. Making the difference. Finding myself worthy. And seeing my hopes come through.
How many times have I wished I could join a fantastic world? Too many to remember. But every time these worlds were more real to me than the real world. Each time it's been more difficult to convince myself that the real world does hold some wonders for me. For the few things about reality that could make me want to commit myself to it, though simple and hardly elaborate, seem to evade me. Maybe they pass me by because they feel my reluctance to walk on the ground rather than close my eyes and fly with my mind. That would be almost welcome, because it would have to do with my choices rather than my making. But I think that it's the other way around; I'm passing on reality because reality has already passed on me.
So, there's just no way around this:
I am a fiction addict. Reality's never been enough for me.
And so fiction is my reality.
I enjoy the company of my imaginary heroes. I submerge into the magic of an imaginary world. And I am whole there. I don't miss anything, other than a true place there.
That is the only thing that dispirits me; the one-way nature of this experience. I cannot influence these worlds, as they 're influencing me. I cannot help, I cannot contribute. I cannot thank my heroes, and curse my enemies. I cannot warn, threat, or encourage. I'm nothing more than a spectator, meant to observe helplessly as the events take place and the stories unfold themselves.
And do I feel so much different when it comes to my story? Don't I feel helpless and lost as I'm being thrown around by my reality? It doesn't really matter. I'm not really real, so how real can my reality be?
And so, here I am, having finished another book, or - more accurately - having another book being finished with me. Here I am, rejected by another world I can't join. Here I am, as unsatisfied with my reality and as enchanted by the magic of the imaginary as I always have been. Here I am, between worlds again...
Here I am, without regrets, or hard feelings, or second thoughts, or doubts...
Most people watch movies, read books, listen to music. I don't. I live them. Maybe you're thinking that that's hardly strange or uncommon. If you are, then you don't really understand what I mean by "live".
I don't mean that I'm simply influenced by them; I mean that I immerse in them; I dissolve in them; I become one with them. And when I'm done with them (they 're actually more done with me than I am with them) my pieces get scattered around, like sand blown away by violent winds. It takes them so much time to find each other afterward (it's actually easier to melt into another dream while I'm still in pieces, rather than spend so much effort to put myself together again. After all, it's only a matter of time before I lose myself in yet another world, so why bother becoming whole first? I save myself quite some time and energy that way). And still, torn apart though I am after every journey, there's no denying the joy, the fulfillment I feel. It's all very contradictory.
I suppose that this is something like falling - again and again - in an impossible love and having - again and again - your heart broken. Because these love stories can't have a happy ending. They only have half of that: an ending. They end for you, and they leave you all alone, no matter how much joy they gave you, no matter how much you loved them. They can't commit to you. They can't exist for you. They 're doomed love stories. And between you and them you are the only one whose heart can be broken. So, that's the heart that breaks; yours. But how could you blame these worlds for wanting to go on on their own? They have that right. You can't ask them to hang around just for you, they have more important things to do.
You know that from the beginning, but you 're unable to turn your back on them. Every minute of it, every second of it, you know it's only a matter of time before it's over, but even so you see it through. You make the journey. You live. You love. Then the end comes and you perish again.
But either too soon or too late - it's hard to tell - you fall again. You don't do anything to prevent this. In fact, most of the times you look for it.
I've dreamed and dreamed and dreamed. Each new world a new obsession. And I've lost myself again and again in the folds of the music of yet another song, or the pages of yet another book. And the end of every book is another heartbreak. The end of every song is another loss.
And I get scattered again.
But, before that inevitable end, I have the time of my life. I live like I've never lived before, finding myself revolting against an oppressive regime, or climbing the highest mountain, or becoming a great writer, or finding an exquisite love, or conversing with ancient philosophers, or future geneticists, or powerful wizards of a parallel reality. Exceeding everybody's expectations - mine included. Being thrown into an ocean of difficulties and surviving against the odds. Making the difference. Finding myself worthy. And seeing my hopes come through.
How many times have I wished I could join a fantastic world? Too many to remember. But every time these worlds were more real to me than the real world. Each time it's been more difficult to convince myself that the real world does hold some wonders for me. For the few things about reality that could make me want to commit myself to it, though simple and hardly elaborate, seem to evade me. Maybe they pass me by because they feel my reluctance to walk on the ground rather than close my eyes and fly with my mind. That would be almost welcome, because it would have to do with my choices rather than my making. But I think that it's the other way around; I'm passing on reality because reality has already passed on me.So, there's just no way around this:
I am a fiction addict. Reality's never been enough for me.
And so fiction is my reality.
I enjoy the company of my imaginary heroes. I submerge into the magic of an imaginary world. And I am whole there. I don't miss anything, other than a true place there.That is the only thing that dispirits me; the one-way nature of this experience. I cannot influence these worlds, as they 're influencing me. I cannot help, I cannot contribute. I cannot thank my heroes, and curse my enemies. I cannot warn, threat, or encourage. I'm nothing more than a spectator, meant to observe helplessly as the events take place and the stories unfold themselves.
And do I feel so much different when it comes to my story? Don't I feel helpless and lost as I'm being thrown around by my reality? It doesn't really matter. I'm not really real, so how real can my reality be?
And so, here I am, having finished another book, or - more accurately - having another book being finished with me. Here I am, rejected by another world I can't join. Here I am, as unsatisfied with my reality and as enchanted by the magic of the imaginary as I always have been. Here I am, between worlds again...
Here I am, without regrets, or hard feelings, or second thoughts, or doubts...
...in search of another source of magic...
1 comment:
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