Usually, I come here with some random thoughts in my mind to grumble about. It's rarely on any specific topic and sometimes it doesn't even mean any thing. But today, I have one in mind that I hope I would not stray away from it (not too far at least).
Reading and Escapism
For all my life, I have read purely for the sake of reading. I read because I enjoy reading. I read because it is a hobby that doesn't require a lot of skill. I read simply because it is my favourite form of entertainment.
I have heard, of course, of people who read for escapism. I understand vaguely of this notion of wanting to escape this boring world, this repetitive daily life. But to be honest, I have never considered reading as an escapism for me, not until recently.
For the last few days (or weeks, or months I cannot recall clearly), due to some event in my life, I have got myself a troubled mind, a heavy heart and perhaps a wretched soul. My mind was (and still is) under siege by a never ending assault from the mind itself. And it feels like there was no escape from these relentless assaults, for where can one hide from one's own mind? I tried to watch TV shows/movies, and my mind slipped away as soon as I lost a bit of concentration. I tried to listen to music, but it only helped my mind wander far more. I tried to play games, but I just could not put my mind into it, which lead to losing and in turn dampened my mood even worse.
And so, I turned back to reading. It was hard at first. Words slipped out of my mind as soon as I finished a sentence, sentences faded away as soon as I read a paragraph. But I forced myself through it. I kept rereading every word, every sentence, every paragraph until they were imprinted on my mind like runes of the Gods. I kept on forcing every word, every line, every paragraph, every page into my mind. Then lo and behold, I am, once again, back into another world. I, once again, walk in shoes that are not mine. I once again have hope although those hopes are not mine (for I dare not hope since to hope is to risk disappointment). I borrow feelings from characters in my book. I rejoice in their triumph, I dare hope in the darkest of time, I laugh at the silliness, I smile at the sight of innocence, I swim in their whole heart love... I even weep for their sadness, I cry out at the injustice of the world (of their worlds and perhaps even of ours), I tread the darkest places, I drown myself in their sorrows and grief... I dare to suffer those pains because I know, at least, those are not mine. And thus, those pains help me hide from my pains. To express this thought, I quote Neil Gaiman because how I can I explain this better than a wordsmith.
We draw our lines around these moments of pain, and remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, like pearls, from our souls without real pain.
Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives.
It was then that I realized I was reading to forget the world, to trick my mind, to give it false hope and happiness. I read until exhaustion undertakes my mind and grants me the peace of sleep, although those sleeps are scarce and those time of peace are short.
Perhaps, it was (and is) because of reading that I haven't gone mad myself.
Only now that I truly understand why reading is a way, if not the best way, of escapism.
Reading, unlike watching movies/listening to musics, requires certain level of concentration that prevent the mind from wandering to unwanted places (my mind do still slip away from time to time, but it's much easier to get it back on track than other kinds of entertainment). Reading, unlike playing games/sports, does not require too much skill which can dampen the mood when we fail to achieve. Some may say that reading does a require certain level of skill to truly understand the underlying themes of the book and the ideas of the author. But I would argue that we do not need those skills to enjoy the act of reading itself.
Conclusion/TL;DR: Reading is one of the best, if not the best, way of escapism. And perhaps, it has saved me from myself.
. And the guy most mentioned in the ambient genre Brian Eno
1 đoạn ngắn của bác mà nhiều từ mới với em quá
. 
