Hey. I haven’t blogged in a long time. Been sick, mostly. Hospitalised, haven’t been to school for more than a week. I’m really supposed to be doing homework now, but I’m completely not in the mood to do so. I’ll probably have to start something after this, though.
I just thought I’d note some of my feelings down here, the only place where my memories don’t get lost. I’ve just spent most of my bedridden days reading - sleeping, mostly, but reading as well - the entire Harry Potter series. Mr. Wong lent me the seventh book when he came to visit with the other Mr. Wong, the one who doesn’t like reading. *cough*
Anyway, I finished reading Deathly Hallows just yesterday, and since then I’ve felt - I don’t know - empty, lost? Like a hollow feeling, like there’s something that should be there but isn’t, like something left me. I’ve no idea how to explain it, describe it, put it in words.
I understand if Harry Potter isn’t your type of book. I think it’s one of the best pieces of literature around today, although I don’t read that widely. It’s best to me though; is that worth anything? Much better than Hamlet or all the other weird Elizabethan stuff anyway.
J.K. Rowling is a genius. Can you imagine what type of creativity and imagination this author must have? Nineteen years, seven novels, a whole new universe of magic. ‘Cos that’s what it is, really: magic. The captivation of a spellbinding plot; the charm of a number of enchanting characters; the hidden, silent call of the profound exponential lessons of life that emanates from the literature… it can’t be anything else.
I don’t think I can achieve my purpose of writing this; I cannot hope to convey the feeling of absolute dread and anticipation as I thumbed through the pages, drinking in each and every word, the images forming in my mind; excitement from the fact that I was getting to the end of the mystery, but dreading to reach the end and finding out that it… ends. It was such a wonderful experience, flipping page by page, living chapter by chapter, ignoring the harsh world around me, just sunk into this amazing work of fiction and living, breathing imagination. It stunned me, when I the back cover closed, and the entire legend finished, ended.
It seems a world apart from me now, something faraway; distant, like a long-lost friend. I now realise the power of (good) literature (for the second time I think, since the Da Vinci talk), its ability to take the reader and his imagination on an emotional roller-coaster ride, living with the characters as though they were real, laughing, crying, everything. Something Hamlet has never been able to do for me, I might add.
And the writing style! I find myself trying to copy it, to imitate the technique of one a hundred, thousand, million times my superior. It makes me want to write, yet when I look at TNN, it seem to pale in comparison. The vocabulary, the organisation! The placement of information where and when it is needed! In short, the absolute essence of the work, a masterpiece. It seems foolish to try and reproduce such perfection.
I feel lonely now. Like I can never pick up a book and be immersed in it as such. I must sound really stupid, feeling lonely because I finished a book. But that’s how I feel; or at least, as close to how I feel as I can describe it.
I should go now. I have homework to finish, and it has to be completed, somehow, even when my mind is clearly elsewhere.
All is well. No, not really.
The Edna Man
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