Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my life in distinct phases: Adventure, Understanding, and Feeling. As a child, I was drawn into books of adventure and fantasy, longing for the day I could break free from the shackles of primary school tuition. I imagined myself wandering through magical forests, living in an abandoned boxcar with fairies. My imagination was heavily influenced by authors like Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, and eventually J.K. Rowling. Real life felt incredibly boring—growing up in rural Selangor with nothing but empty fields and deserted roads. I invented my own adventure games, exploring abandoned houses, streams, and lakes (daring now that I think about it). I climbed trees, wishing I had a tree house like the ones in American movies. I desperately wanted to experience magic. I devoured every book I could get my hands on, hoping for a magical portal to appear in my closet and lead me to Narnia. But that day never came. The magical life I created in my head never materialized, and slowly, I stopped caring. I grew up.
By my early 20s, I was confused and perplexed by the world. Adventure and fantasy seemed trivial in the face of reality. Death, destruction, war, injustice—these were the things that plagued my mind. How are humans so unkind? How is it possible that people get away with war? Why do people hate more than they love? Isn’t love and peace what everyone strives for? I immersed myself in non-fiction, seeking answers in political theory, philosophy, psychology, sociology, religion, science—anything that could help me understand. I went through the worst existential crisis of my life, desperately trying to make sense of the world. Huge life challenges pushed me further, forcing me to confront the truth, hoping I could find a perspective that acknowledged these unpleasant realities but still gave me peace.
Somehow, miraculously, I got there. It took reading countless bestsellers in every category and journaling religiously every day. Then, suddenly, non-fiction didn’t inspire me anymore. The books started repeating themselves, regurgitating the same ideas in different ways, and I became bored. I no longer needed to understand. I’d made peace with injustice and human nature. I even thought, “Maybe my love for reading was just a phase,” and pivoted to TV shows and series for that quick dopamine hit. It worked for a while, but TV could only satisfy my eyes, not my soul.
Then I entered my next phase: Feeling. I picked up fiction again—specifically, fantasy—and everything changed in an instant. After years of the worst reading slump, my love for books came back with a vengeance. I devoured fantasy novels, downloading one after another, reading back-to-back at every spare moment. These books made me feel again. They opened the floodgates to emotions I’d kept locked away while I was busy "intellectualizing" life in my 20s. It was like opening Pandora’s box. Through these stories, I found a way to explore and process complex emotions—love, hate, anguish, jealousy, desire—using fictional characters as vessels for my own healing and understanding.
I’m still in this phase, happily exploring life through these stories, crying with them, laughing with them—feeling more through fictional characters than I ever could with real people. Fantasy books have become a safe space for me, a place to explore difficult emotions without having to confront them in real life (not that I’d want to—I try to keep my real life as drama-free as possible). As a child, I cared most about the plot in these stories—What happens next? Where are we going? Now, as an adult, I care more about the why. Why did they do that? Why do they feel this way? It’s amazing to see how much I’ve grown and to be able to reflect on this journey.
I wonder, what would my next phase be?
If I had to guess, it would be "Expression".