the weeds of enticement

I love entering this certain shop, the smell, the titles, they are new.  Every time I get a new one, not necessarily new, but new to my vision, to my brain and to my heart, I can’t help but feel.  I feel the soft shivers trembling by my spinal, tears that would later flow like the current of the river.  I feel the circuits of my imagination tangling like webs to enhance an almost perfect image.  Most of the time, I feel my heart deliberately hammering, pang-pang-pang, I could almost hear it.  Yes those are what I feel, from my eyes, my brain and to my heart.

Why do I feel them?  As if it is really important, as if it really matters in life, as if it would help me.  However, the crucial fact is it is able to encompass me; it captivates me and holds me tight.  What is this that is able to manipulate my person without harming me?  It feeds on me with necessity, yet it teaches me the rules of life.  The new one is always a challenge and each portion would either keep my attention or would release me.  And every time I happen to have one, it deliberately keeps me awake at nights.

It is able to bind me and bring me to unknown places.  One moment I could be on top of the vast mountain ranges of Switzerland while conversing with the most wise man on earth, the next I can be bought to the grand rapids of illusion in the middle of the Pacific while trying to stay alive.  Sometimes, it brings me magic and flying brooms and the next I will enter a deserted attic with all the traditional trinkets of joy.  If it is new, I am often amazed by this, always unsuspecting to me what might happen succeeding each moment, the disarray of perceptions confusing me into an eclipse of unknown quantity. 

I feel my heart skipping a beat once in a while, this particular title is good.  Every time I turn a page, it is often fast, as if I’m afraid to miss a second of the life I’m living whenever I am inside.  Why do I find the life the new one portrays more interesting?  Because it is written, unlike my life that is not.  Having the events unfold in ones mind seems to captivate me more than having real events unfold beyond my eyes.  Will my life, if written, be as interesting?

When I am with the new one, the unfamiliarity will stream around my veins, seeping me from my reality that I consider dull.  I would either be in wonderland, roam happily or I might be suffering, but oblivious to the people around me, it is my little secret they can see.  Sadly, whenever I finish one, the truth in life seeps me back and then I could either feel sad or happy about it, depending on the effect of the new one.

Nevertheless, there are special moments where I might always be inclined to get something old, something I’ve been acquainted with, familiar.  There would no longer be surprises, I know how it ends.  But it is always a great joy to see the old again, to remember the events and to awaken once more, the heart that remained quiet.  It feels like meeting an old friend, and him/her restoring everything you’ve done together; there is no awkwardness, no introductions. 

Consequently, what the new and the old would always try to do is to make me realize the truth, yet ironically rejects reality.  They are certainly escapes from the world and often create the illusions of idealism.  “What must be?” is the wonder of it.  I don’t really care either way.  What is of importance to me is its effect, the drugs running inside of me and would often leave me scarred.

I always turn to them when the world I am living on is in disproportions.  I take them and let it engulf me into a more logical alternate, logical for me at least, even if it is a fake life.  People would always question why I waste money on them, I tell them, “I don’t waste money on things that would always help me understand.”  I am able to understand scenarios in real life when I relate it to how it was understood inside the pages.  There are people who think that how I approach these things and how I let these things over take me is unwise, I ignore them, they don’t understand my connection with these.

All throughout, the magnificence of it is that it is able to expose from me different emotions: I cry, I laugh, I get angry and I get touched. However, the last page of the fiction remains to have me elicit only two major emotions: satisfaction or disappointment.  It might end terribly, hanging, and confusing but it can be a good form of art.  It might end happily, joyfully and complete but might always be a mere façade that can leave me feeling empty, maybe because my life must be more interesting.  The last page would always even out my heart afterwards, my life versus the fiction.

My experience with the thing would replay on my mind and then I would judge whether I really wasted money on these books or not.  And after finishing one, sometimes, I feel sad, as if I’m leaving an old friend, as if I’m going back from vacation, back to truth.  Although not all of them takes a special place in my heart and in my person, there are unique ones that would always capture me, like a best friend, who was able to entice me completely and help me understand my purpose of living, I might feel more blessed and I might feel worse.  How the lesson of the book would have stayed and reflected is what matters when reading.  In a life full of confusion and disaster, I result to the book to take me away and teach me what I wouldn’t have known otherwise.  It can also, however, make me feel like a failure if my life is less interesting than fiction.

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I just had to share this.