I remember it as if it were yesterday the first time I got sucked into the wonderful books of J.K. Rowling. It is impossible to know just how many times I’ve disappeared into a world so magnificent that I from the bottom of my heart wish it was true.
Tears come streaming down my face when I think back to the days when Harry Potter and I was one. When I lived life through his head. His friends were my friends, his joys were my joys, and his sorrows cut through my heart as if it was really I who had round glasses and a zigzag scar on my forehead. Thus it was like losing a part of me the day I closed the final page of the final book. I remember how tears were streaming that day, just like they are now. Remember how I tried to read the pages as slowly as possible to postpone the ending just a little while longer.
I don’t like sharing Harry Potter with other people. I know it sounds terribly selfish, but my relationship with that magical universe is intimate and personal. Those are my books! No one can feel as attached to them as I do. The fact that other people might actually feel exactly the same makes some of the magic disappear. Makes the fact that it’s all imagination even more evident.
There will always be a part of me who wishes everything was real. I want it so badly sometimes that my body aches with a horrible ache, and it feels hopelessly hopeless when all logic tells me that it’s impossible. As if my heart and my brain are at war, and I can’t do anything more productive about it than to sit here alone in my room and cry. Over the fact that the world is cold and grey instead of warm and colorful, filled with magic, dragons and pumpkin juice.