May 09, 2013

A more pensive play

I recently picked up another of Banana Yoshimoto's books from the library. I read her books before, some years before, and I liked them. I like her writing, her style, the mood that she manages to create through sensitive wordplay and delicate character crafting. Well, given that the literature is translated from Japanese, I suppose there is also due credit to the translator for having taken such serious effort in handpicking the English words. 

 As I was reading, however, a feeling, which I couldn't label, got to me. I wanted, in a way that I desired but knew that I couldn't, to be in that sort of mood in which I could empathise more, be more sensitive to the words playing in front of my eyes and feel more for my companion within the story... I wanted to be more immersed in the story, losing track of the sounds, smells and distractions happening in my environment. And, I felt a slight tinge of sadness and regret that it was not to be and that in a way, I knew I couldn't. It was like, a sector of my emotions, or the capability to have stronger emotions, was closed, out-of-bounds, for now. I couldn't go deeper than what I already was feeling. I could only recall the time I used to be able to access that sector, that deeper emotional consciousness.

 The time, of course, is easy to remember. It was the whole year-and-half (or so) after Kay and I broke up; one of the darkest period of my life so far. But then, aside from what had happened and was happening to me, everything else outside was so illuminating. Reading became my escape, books became my constant reliable companion, music (depressing ones) was so very assuring and therapeutic. What I did then, to kill time (just like I am killing time now), was not unfamiliar as it is now. Yet, then, those things, those activities felt so purgative, so total that each time I finished a book, I felt a dark bit of my life being washed clean and illuminated; each time I took out my earphones, I felt like a weight on me being sucked into the earphones and swiftly disposed of. When my companion in the story felt relieved, I felt so relieved I teared. When she felt happy, I felt so happy I smiled easily with her. When she was grieved, I grieved with her and sometimes, sobbed. It was as if I had completely projected myself, my life then, my emotions onto the twists and turns in the story. Empathy came naturally as words flowed through my sight continuously. Thinking back, I could say that was a reader's indulgence, even though at that time, I had no idea that I would feel any sense of nostalgia for it. 

 The Lake, the afore-mentioned book from Yoshimoto, attempted to give a little of that back to me. Or, I attempted to steal a little for myself. It was not futile, but really, I couldn't say it was a success. It was not futile only to the extent that, at least, I am blogging about it and writing what must be the longest and most moody post in a long while. 

 In a way, I miss that total indulgence. And ironically, I can actually entitle myself to it now, since my now-a-days involve getting out of bed, getting myself fed and living as unproductively as I can allow myself to. Unfortunately, I am too aware that that is not an entitlement; that will always be a privilege. A privilege to be experienced only when the other distractions of life could not take away the pain and the hollow feeling one felt within, and desperately needed another outlet to devote attention to. 

 Desperation... perhaps that is the crux. A desperation to get away from the existing reality and escape into another one that one knows would end as the last page is turned. A desperation to establish some control back in life, to fill the void within. 

 The blessed is deprived of that desperation which would lend them the most fertile imagination to be in the shoes of another person, to exist out of themselves, even for a short duration from page one to last. 

Posted by 杏 cy （Jancy） at 13:17