Books form a gateway to the land of “make - believe” where I can live a thousand different lives. It is the perfect outlet for escapism, but, the actual pull? - that lies in the way the author treats the characters. The outlining of their thought processes, reactions and styles of communication. It sometimes resonates so deeply that it leaves me wondering, how a fictional character can understand someone so accurately but people in real life come rarely close.
There are times when I'm reading a book and I think of him - not because I miss curling up against him while I read, but because I wish he were reading the very same lines that I was reading. The possibility of what it would be like for him to know how a character in the book felt in a moment - because that would be the most articulate expression of what I felt for him, but could never voice it out so succinctly.
Ever so often, the printed expression would be the exact words and reactions which I wish he would say to me - not because I am unsure of his affections, but because that crystal clear expression of emotions or mature approach to my dreams and insecurities is sometimes exactly what I need to hear.
When a fictional character treats another in such a precious way, with so much insight, it makes me crave for the very same connection. Maybe this is why being in love with a fictional character can be so satisfactory and sad at the same time.
Satisfactory, because it would be rather easy to substitute myself as the object of affection, being able to resonate with the character, but more so, because of the way the fictional character was treated by her love - with absolute sagacity and abundance of expression!
Sad, because no matter how wonderful the world of make - believe, it has to come to an end. And when it does come to end, it leaves me thinking desperately “If only he knew - the way of words, the expression in speech can sometimes be just the balm a scarred heart needs, to beat again - wildly and abundantly. “
In real life, my connection with the fictional character is severed by the realities of life - where I know he sees me, loves me but does not quite put forth a theatrical twirl to the expression of sentiments. Maybe the theatrical declarations have no place in real life and maybe that is why a book is still very precious and my pillow of comfort.
Featured illustration: Handwoven linen, naturally dyed, saree "Blushes & Cream"