#BookwormProblems: “Is this a pigment of my imagination or is this real life?”

Eye bags so big and black people could almost accuse you of being a druggie. Life so dull all you really want is to not exist. Dreams so far away you’re just absolutely certain your life is going nowhere.


Such is the reality that meets a reader who has just finished the last word of the last sentence of the last page of the last book he or she just read.

Harry Potter has finally killed Voldemort by destroying all of the horcruxes (including himself).
Lara Jean Covey and Peter Kavinsky have finally gotten back together.
Mr. Rochester finally fulfilled happiness in his life by being with Jane (although blind).
The Little Prince has finally gone back to his planet (even though I suspect he was tricked by that snake).
Sayuri finally had everything she ever wanted: The Chairman.

What else is there to do with your life after seeing the words, “THE END,” glaring at you in bold letters? Nothing.

At least, that’s entirely true in my case. I am so in love with books they basically make up my entire life. Books are everything for a reader like me. We read and read and read and read all the time that we forget that we are actually ourselves first before we become readers. This is actually a major problem of mine right now.

Summer has just ended in my country which means, leisure reading time is also over for me. The things is, I have read so many books the past break which brought me back again to my biggest personal issue: identity crisis.

As a reader, my imagination sweeps me off the ground and often drags my soul off to a life that is so different from the life that I live. My brain takes me to the places I have never been to, to the times I did not get the chance to exist in, to the lives I never got the chance to live as. It is almost as if the life I live is the fictional one and the life I longed for were real and not made up.

Once again, I am in that point in my life where I am no longer certain whether I am speaking and thinking as myself or as some character I picked up somewhere. It’s crazy (and unfortunately, a hopeless case) enough to make me question whether I am normal or not sometimes – and I certainly hope I am. But as reality now sweeps its way back into my life, I cannot help but force myself to keep my hold onto the fictional life I have created for myself.

The thing is, books always impart a piece of themselves to a reader, whether it is welcome or not. They leave marks of themselves upon the hearts of the people who treasure them and in that way, they start to exist in the world as well. Once you have read a certain book, it is now alive in you in such a way that it will always will, whether it be in your conscious, sub-conscious or unconscious mind.

But I guess as the end of the pages we’ve read come to an end, we must also learn to end our fantasies and face our real world with real problems and real people to love. Maybe you’ve learned a thing or two from that fictional book you’ve read but that doesn’t mean you should live in it forever.

As readers, our main job is to analyze the text and internalize every word to acquire as many lessons as we possibly can from the piece of art. Maybe we can get carried away and escape to it sometimes but we should always choose the reality in front of us.

I’m a reader.. Are you?


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