The problem one discovers when they are obsessed with the fictional, lies within the characters. You envy them. You strive to be them. And sometimes you even become them.
Even the coldest, and saddest of villains are easy to relate with for some people.
I, for one, see myself in Estella from Great Expectations. My family will probably tell you I’m nothing like her. Sometimes I believe she’s no more than a stranger. But when I take a step back, I see that we could be twins.
No, I was not raised by basically a ghost (let’s admit it, Miss Havisham was a ghost). I do understand, though, how it feels to be loved by someone you can’t find interest in.
I know how to love. My heart still beats for beauty and experience, but it struggles with romance. Instead of feeling open with people, I feel ashamed. I fear passion, so I don’t show it. Men like me, sometimes even love me, but I struggle feeling “love” for them.
I wasn’t inspired by Estella, though. We never actually ‘become’ our favorite book characters per say. Rather we find ourselves in them. Perhaps we see our own narcissism in Dorian Gray. Or maybe we find a sense of leaderships in ourselves through Piggy.
Until the day I die, though, I’ll never understand how people can not like reading. I… I can’t understand.