by Ryan Wong
“Words were different when they lived inside of you.”
― Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe
To me, there is no feeling quite like reaching the last page of a book that has left you enthralled and at its mercy. Or rather, there is no feeling quite like finishing its final sentence. Concluding a story that has sunk its claws into your very being is to realize the absence of a certain gravity you had grown to find solace in, leaving you with nothing but a hollow, tethered ache.
Of course, the ache fades with time, but we are forever left with an impression: an everlasting tint upon the soft flesh of our hearts. Every book we have ever read is a tile, however mighty or minuscule, added to the mosaic of our immeasurable psyche. Their stories, lessons, and warnings stick with us as we go about our lives, shaping our thoughts and actions as a potter shapes his clay. A way this can be described is by picturing the world as a single forest, the fiction we read as footprints in the dirt and ourselves as ants following the trail; shallow footprints lead to little if any change, but larger and deeper ones can steer us onto a different path entirely.
Nonetheless, humans are stubborn creatures. Perhaps that is why we walk on tightropes and jump through rings of fire: deep in the pits of our stomachs is a desire to be consumed by something magnificent; a heroic adventure across the plains, a forbidden romance on a moonlit balcony, or a ballroom waltz with Death. When all is quiet, we wish for splendor not because we believe we are deserving of greatness, but because we are afraid to use the word at the back of our throats: respite.
It is no surprise that for many of us, books are a reprieve from the frustrations of a monotonous and mundane existence. The allure of imaginary universes in which we do not have any obligations is—as I am sure you, dear reader, have experienced before as well—like the song of a siren to shipwreck. And yet, we do not let this pull overcome us completely. The temptation is there, yes, but alongside it is the prospect of surrendering ourselves to a sea of black letters. We readily immerse ourselves in fantasies and tragedies knowing we will resurface eventually, flaming torch in hand, ready to face the hydra that is reality once again.
There are some books we are, however, afraid to touch, because to read them through would be to stare into a mirror and see a map of our most intimate thoughts and experiences reflected back at us. Reality and fiction blend into one another, trapping us in a purgatory of mismatched shards and smudged hues. With no beginning or end, surrender becomes a mandate, and we are left with nothing but a white flag and a knot in our chests. But if we do cross the sea and arrive at the last page, what happens then?
For each head the hydra grows, we grow with it. In the end, a part of us is always anchored to the tides, just as we are forever changed by the respite we seek. Books leave their marks on us all the same, regardless of the genre or length—it is merely up to us to decide which ones to hide, and which ones to wear like armor.
