I’m thinking of re-reading my favourite childhood books, and at the top of my list is The Neverending Story, by Michael Ende. I want to re-read these books, but I’m afraid to. I’m afraid that I’ve been at least partially swallowed up by The Nothing, and therefore won’t appreciate their magic.
As a kid, reading was so much more than just hiding in my little corner of the school library with a good book. Books were portals to something much bigger than the mundane world. I longed to be Bastian Balthazar Bux. I longed to run away from life’s problems and hide indefinitely in the attic of the school; to crack open that book and be transported by way of portal to a fabulous adventure.
Reading was a chance to be a hero, and a way to cope with all the uncertainties of day-to-day life. Because in Fantastica, you’re living a life less ordinary in a world that revolves around you, where you’re not just another cog in the machine, but an integral part of the story, of your story.
No matter if in this world you’re terrified of people and your biggest fear in life is being called upon in class. In Fantastica, you are the chosen one. In Fantastica, your own imagination is the key to saving the world. How cool is that?
The Neverending Story will live on forever in my mind, and I will never let it be swallowed up by The Nothing. And that is why, I need to read it again.