One of my favorite pastimes is opening a book and being forty pages in by the next hour, sucked into a world I had never known before, that now feels more familiar than being at home.
Am I myself, or am I the narrator that anxiously and excitedly waits for life to twist under her feet? I cannot decipher because as the boy in the book leans in to kiss her (
me?), I can feel my heartbeat speed up and skip a beat. How can this be? I get rattled when the protagonist has a fight with a friend or sees said boy hold someone else’s hand. I feel the sting of a loss that does not exist in the physical realm, but my heart has been sent on a rollercoaster of regret when the protagonist chooses to keep her words to herself.
Is this normal? Is time travel real, and if this is not it, what have I stumbled upon?
If I were to be honest with you, I’d let you know that this phenomenon is actually my guiltiest pleasure to date. I yearn to jump into another world even when there are no books in sight. Thank goodness for Netflix, am I right?
But, am I wasting my days living vicariously through words on pages and images on a screen? It feels like I can’t help myself sometimes. This worldly escape is my drug of choice, and yet there’s always a voice in my head telling me that I need to experience life for myself.
Yet I cannot decipher between the boy who kissed her and the boy that kisses me, because hey – my heart is still quickly beating in my chest.
What a conundrum.