Fantasy narratives were once the only stories that captivated me. I wanted to leave reality as far behind as I could. The way they pull you in, take you somewhere you’ve never dreamed of. To me, nothing was too outlandish. Most fantasy books even stuck too close to what I found away from the pages.
Escapism aside, the thing that compelled me most about tales of fate and quests were the connections between the characters. Whenever I emerged from the world in my head, I couldn’t help but find my own relationships lacking. I enjoyed spending time with my friends, but not enough to embark on life-altering journeys with them. I trusted them, but not enough to offer them my life.
To this day, I still don’t know if this is a personal problem or something many people feel. Either way, it left me with a bone-deep longing that I haven’t been able to shake to this day.
I’m not giving my friends enough credit. They have allowed me to escape this dread time and time again. I suspect the fault doesn’t lie with them, but with me.
Life-long dedication aside, there have been times I felt like I could do anything with the people at my side. We made the town our own little world. Construction sites turned into dungeons as we snuck in after-hours to explore. The forest up the road became infested with all kinds of creatures. Some we fought with branches turned swords, others became our neighbors as we built our own palace within the thicket. We knew all the secret paths and clearings in that forest. Our own little kingdom.
Shedding our mantle of knights and warriors at the end of the day felt like removing layers of myself, packing myself away to fit inside the small space I occupied in the real world. Bringing snacks and toilet paper, we tried to stay for as long as we could, but the illusion always broke.
Others must have done similar things in their youth, but I only realised this when I was older, going back to the forest during a visit to my parents. I couldn’t believe how small it was. It likely doesn’t qualify as an actual forest. Even years later, the foundations of our huts remained. I don’t think I would be able to enter them upright if they were still standing.
That was the day I first understood nostalgia. Our place wasn’t ours anymore. The woods were familiar, but nothing was quite as I remembered. Finding once well-trodden paths neglected and overgrown left me with a dread so overwhelming I had to turn back home. It was a cruel reversal and, once again, I was adrift in a world that felt lacking.
I have the same experience when I revisit well-loved books, only to discover that they don’t evoke the same magic that they once did. Every lost book takes a part of me with it.
This feeling never stops hurting, but over the course of my life, I have found more special books, places, and people than I have lost. The dread of loss mustn’t stop you, because the one thing worse than being hurt is having nothing close enough to hurt you. Keep an eye out for all that is too big for this world. Don’t let it slip past.
© Anna Kleinschmidt 2022-08-03