I'm never sure if anyone else feel the same way, but to me it's more than drugs. its intense drugs. something that pulls me into a virtual whirlpool and left me gasping for air afterwards. even the side effects are similar to drugs. I would stand up look around, and try with all my might to remember where I was, what I was doing, what I'm supposed to be doing, and the hardest bit, how much time did I spent. the last questions usually comes up to a shocking and dangerous answer. then reality will gradually hit me. I'll emphasise on the word "gradually". eventually I would gain my complete sense, but before that I would drift in an awkward, blissful moment of going back and forth between reality and dreams of whatever I was reading. unless somebody whipped me out of this state, like what my mother usually does, it could go on for quite a while.
I've been like this since as long as I remember. as a year 5 student in indonesia where there is hardly any libraries. I was known as a book thief. everyone in the class knows that if they accidentally leave a novel or comics unattended in a visible place, it would get snatched by yours truly. it's not like I hid it or take it home or anything. my intention is always to borrow it for a couple of second to see what it is about. only after I knew that I really really really haaad to now how it began. I'm not going to read the whole story or anything. after I read the beginning, I had to now how it ends. that's it I promise, I'll give you your book back afterwards. then afterwards I started to peak a page somewhere in the middle, hey you can't expect me to know the beginning and the end without any curiosity of how the story reach its exciting conclusion. and you can guess how it all ends. it doesn't help that my parents banned me from reading Indonesian books as they see it's a waste of time. I didn't understand it back then, but now I realise that most of the novels I snatched are cheap dramas that ruined my taste in literature. now that I explored many different type of text from novels by David Metzenthen which became an immediate favourite, the ever famous Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer series, to Katherine Mansfield which I have fallen in love with, I regretted ever reading those stuff.
I realise that my desire of reading is strong and startling. something like this could be dangerous for year 12. I recognise this early on year 11. I started a move to try to "control" my reading. instead of borrowing a book almost everyday, I borrowed two every friday. there is two days in a weekend there was no way I can survive with a single book. then I limit it into one, and only every fortnight. I tried to stretch it as far as possible until I only borrowed books before holidays, which I am very proud of. but then I realise I cheat often. a sneak to the library during recess and lunchtime with the excuse of studying ends up as wasted time on an interesting book that just had to be visible just when I don't need it the most. sometimes I even ran to the internet for something to read, this create a more guiltless feeling as I could argue that I'm not even touching a book so I'm so not getting addicted. a favourite site is Asian Fanfics, this has everything to do with the fact that I am a huge fan of Korean pop, like most teenagers these days. this creates more problem in the holidays, when my mind stubbornly argues that I have all the time in the world no matter how hard I tried to remind it of homework and the upcoming exams.
it all started with ESL homework. I didn't do ESL in year eleven, which means I have to catch up on a few stuff from unit 2. the teacher gave me a guide and instruct me to read a couple of stories from a short story book that was studied by my peers last year. it turns out the book is "Growing up Asian in Australia" by Alice Pung. needles to say I was interested. it was a collection of stories by Asian writers that grew up in Australia, as the title suggested. as a teenager living in melbourne I am clearly a targeted audience and is immediately hooked. I never viewed myself as Asian. technically I'm not. my skin is too dark and my eyes are bigger. the fact that I wear a headscarf is certainly a noticeable difference. however two years ago I moved to Springvale, a place where it is populated by asians. my school friends are mostly Asians. as I mention before I was a fan of Korean pop, I also enjoyed reading Japanese manga. as a teenager seeking of a place to belong, I find being Asian attractive. I also realise that in some degrees I was in denial of my own culture. In some degrees I have a bit of a hatred. I might write about that later on. as I was saying I can relate quite a bit on Asian culture and I can certainly relate to wanting to belong as that is what the book is centred on. I was immersed in the story of people like me, minorities trying to fit in and adjust. I can sympathies on stories of children that doesn't meet up to their Asian parents standard, this is something I see often in my friends. I can empathised on stories about being judged by what you look like, and you can guess how often that happens to me. I giggle girlishly at stories about homosexual men coming to terms with their sexuality and race and how they deal with their own culture and society. the fact that me, a straight, muslim, 16 year old girl finds that attractive is beyond awkward. and logic. I haven't read any books for quite awhile, I didn't borrow one for the holidays knowing it's year twelve and I have heaps of work to be done, this really affects my addiction and I simply can't stop myself reading other stories in the book. I can't think of why the curriculum decide for us to only read two stories. two stories??? two short stories out off a huge amazing collection of stories???? how is that even physically possible? so I gave up on resisting and read as much as my heart desires.
I have a feeling that it was getting late. I look up to the clock and realise it was midnight. slowly I tilt my head to the pile of homework I was planning to do. great... I did it again...
