I was updating my Goodreads to-be-read pile and an epiphany paid a taunting visit, I’ll never be able to read all the books that have been and will be written. My heart sank into a dreadful limbo of helplessness and anxiety, I assuaged the sudden panic attack by ordering more books and making my to-be-read pile a to-be-read fortress.

I just wish I could time travel like Tim from about time and just relive the first spark of comprehension, the sweet relief of not feeling alone because someone in those pages gets it. Snorting at someone’s joke because it reminds you of a familiar line from a book. Being emotionally invested in fictional people never ended well for anybody.

The feeling I get when I touch a crisp cover a book I have been pining over for more than a year, the smooth ridges, the dentition left on the book-rib from the journey from the store to your hand, the mind boggling smell of mint condition books. The even more mesmeric scent of second-hand books. Old books, especially, entrap you into their history. More than the story on the pages, I wonder about the previous possessor; if he was happy in his life, if he’d read this book during a sad time of his life, if it held meaning, did it make him cry, ponder, reflect or was it an insipid guest on a short stay on his nightstand. And if you’re lucky you’ll be treated by a small name and address or a short note from the previous possessor. When I find this treasure I always hope that they are fine in their lives and that they miss the book sometimes, I know I would. But then I would never give away my books, even for charity, I don’t possess a golden heart you see. No, I am not even giving away The Twilight saga.

Do you ever feel that one consequential moment of enlightenment, that one moment of clarity, that one moment of profusion of ‘sense’, in a word at the right place or a short sentence of evangelical intervention? You feel blessed, a new form of life. It’s like the author wrote the lines only for you to make sense. I love the feeling of being helplessly at the mercy of these words; completely surrendering to these blotches of ink. Sometimes I thank these words through tears or ‘poetic-debt’ as I love to call it and sometimes an endless ode in the form of a fan e-mail to the author.

These aren’t just words trying to impress me through their curves and arrangements, these are living memories of the hope to make sense of ourselves, Books aren’t a matter of ungrateful handling, they are as alive as you. They help you find lost pieces of your constitution. When I read, it feels like I am waltzing with the words to the music of the story. It is the only time I am ‘not lost.’

   I think Books are a reader’s chance of redemption. Redemption from:  society, non-conformity, loneliness, misanthropy, cynicism and self-loathe. I don’t recall a book that did not rekindle my love for life, every book has a certain uniqueness; a royal subtlety. If you’ve read a book that you like, it means it reminded you of yourself but in an altered way, you see yourself in the goodness of the character and understand your own vices through them. You hope that you will become that beautiful sentence that has been permanently etched in your memory, a reminder that you are more than what you think.

I think it is important to be alone with a book, read the irony in this line, reader. It’s important to surround yourself with people you’ll never meet, places you’ll never see, emotions you’ll never feel but in those printed pages. Trust me it is important. Let the words romance with your thoughts, let the lovers unite.

Aren’t we all stories waiting to be written in the end?

I remembered a line from The Book thief: “I am haunted by humans.” Said death.

I could feel the torrid of mind numbing emotions coursing through me when I read this line. What if we let these stories haunt us? What if we become each story? It wouldn’t be any less an adventure than Alice, would it?

P.S. I have problems reconciling with the fact that I should not read books for an entire month but I am going to disobey my disciplined conscience. It would be an absolute pleasure to receive the titles of your personal favorites.

Before finally starting this post I randomly typed the title (of this post) on the google search engine to cure my curious cat. Nothing came up. Achievement unlocked. I find immense pleasure in finding rarity.

I was wondering what I think about whenever my head is careless. It started whilst socializing with fellow humans (chore if you ask me). The girls in my class were talking about prospect catches and misses. My non- existent dick just yawned but as mentioned earlier, I am a hypocrite, so I sharpened my hearing while acting all smug and nonchalant. Familiar names popped up, some boringly cliché others, a revelation. That got me wondering if I might ever develop fondness for another REAL person. REAL person is the key word, reader. I know, I know that I’ve had a solitary crush once in the dark ages but the present is an Uninviting Garden of doom. Yes, this is my problem; pathologically-romantically averted to real people.

I swear I’ve done the research and screen-shoted a myriad of similar sufferers. At least I am not alone. Once I realised my complication I dedicated myself to a quest for finding the origin; fountainhead, creator (he’s got a lot of names).

I went back in time, looked at the present and it struck me. I have romantic feelings, all right. But for *uncomfortable silence* fictional people.  It’s not a revelation, just an ignorant denial in full bloom.

Who am I duping? I’ve known this FOREVER. I hope you understand my predicament, reader. It started with a sinless liking for our dear Harry (Potter).



Then came the reign of Samurai Jack and Robin (teen Titans). You are now witnessing my perpetual downfall. I never noticed when the lines betwixt the hero-worship and fascination with righteousness dissipated, I became a creature of the shadows, always lurking in the dark, waiting for my next prey; I was now personally invested in their conquests and failures. What they thought, said, did or dreamt became the truth of my reality.

Chivalry- check.

Accent-check.

Physique-tested positive for earthquakes.

THE HAIR- L'Oreal sponsorship for life.  I finally lost the ability to even.



By this time my sweet-observant mother had realised something funny with my Boyometer. I did not like real boys, news to her, and eye roll for me. She thought it was a phase. Don’t laugh.

Then came the epic disaster that was Seventh grade; Edward Cullen. I don’t know how many people have snapped their laptops shut (if anybody reads at all, that is). I was THAT girl.  Biology selected me to play her cosmic joke. I was obsessed to the point of ignoring the passive aggressive psycho stalker that was Edward Cullen. Feminism hit me soon after. 

 Edward Scissor hands, misguided and clueless as he was of humanity- was one fleeting yearning I’ll never completely understand.

Ichabod could investigate me all he wanted (from sleepy hollow).



Then came the phase of the emotionally conflicted Charlie and Holden (perks of being a wallflower and catcher in the rye respectively).

I cannot call it a phase because it will be a betrayal to the lasting impression they left on my mind, I still imagine myself engrossed in a conversation with Charlie, of what he thinks of the universe and why  people behave the way they do. And ask Holden if he approves of this post, I am scared that his will be a negative response.

 Nonetheless, it came down to William Herondale and Ash of the Seelie Court (Infernal devices and the iron fey series respectively) who were the dreamy ones, the final fantasy of every female. Will promised eternal love while ash taught me that I was enough for the world.

Hannibal Lecter. As convoluted my personality gets, it was this man who stole my sanity. Happy I lived in my mythical lands but he mingled his obscene reality. The danger, the thrill, the sense of exhilaration in his (mis)deeds, I embraced them and warped my carefully protected brain cage.  The layers of lies and half-truths and honest emotions held me captive, I unabashedly spent nights wondering what if Hannibal found me incessantly looping loops around him and his memory palace. I am a sucker for emotionally tortured characters with a ghastly past.

The more I tried to reconstruct my own mental anatomy, I felt a stinging melancholia of an unsettling truth.

I was a foregone conclusion; I was too attached to the imperfections (as society has taught me) in these men. I’d let them consume me entirely into their lives, I’d forgotten about the people that existed outside these pages, I was a walking paradox, reader. It was and wasn’t my fault to have arrived at the end of the world, only to jump or retrace my steps. I chose the latter, I am too scared you see.

 This is all I know and it (fiction) has a familiar pain in its non-existence in this dimension.

These poetic heroes draw you in even when their worlds are falling apart. I guess they present a fourth dimension of humanness that reality, the treacherous mistress restrains from us. These apparitions of the authors mind offer them(authors) a branch to hold on to when they are falling onto the ground, the vestigial hope that we are really perfect in our imperfections and if not this life in the present then another life in the pages will bear testament to it. That’s the price we pay, of losing a beauty often declared insipid, often overshadowed by the struggle of trying too hard to be perfect(in reality). I wish we could be the books we read, the unsung lullabies, the vague allusions, the distant cries and the broken hopes that these character so easily assume the roles of.

I have been bombarding my personality onto you reader, I am converting you into a deranged creature, an empathetic equal of Will Graham (he’s hot). I will be a cosmic metaphor for falling into the arms of an illusion by the time you read this. Nah, I just mentioned the last sentence just to sound smugly superior. But I hope that the aftermath of this post will be a sweet acceptance of people who often hide their love for myths and fiction and feel ashamed for essentially being too phantasmal for the real world. Oops I did the smug thing again.