When this world is not enough, I look between the covers

Kamandaka, The Jakarta Post, Jakarta

I am an avid reader. OK, you may have heard that one before, but what you don't know is that I devour books like movie critics feast on movies. Only I'm not so good at reviewing them.

I read books, one after another, like breathing. It is the one thing that I am absolutely certain I am good at. I may not be good at understanding what I read, mind you!

I get panicky if I find I am without a book when the weekend looms. I rifle through drawers and scour under tables just so I have some reading material while in the toilet, and I make sure to have a book or magazine while on a bus or during a taxi ride (although often I am left with a massive headache once I alight).

I read while waiting for the doctor, during lunch or dinner, before I go to bed at night and, on weekends, when I wake up in the morning.

Now you get the picture.

What do I read? Anything and everything, it seems. Travel guides, romance, mystery, history, biographies, fantasy, science fiction -- almost every genre available in the market.

Now the tricky question: Why do I read so much? A hopeless, friendless hut in? The proverbial bookworm? I hope not.

When I was a little kid learning my ABCs, whenever I traveled I read every store sign, street sign, banner and billboard that the car passed. Back then, I read to improve my reading skills and to while away the time.

As I grew older, I read because it was more fun than doing homework.

Now, even if I can't seem to find time to go to the gym and work out or call up high school friends and reminisce about "the good old days", I can always find time to read.

I guess I read because I found books more exciting than real life. Romances are more romantic, adventures more thrilling and mysteries more mysterious.

I have woven a fantasy world based on my books.

I traveled with Laura Ingalls on that journey between the house in the big woods and the house on the prairie.

I traipsed America's Wild West with Old Shatterhand, felt the exhilaration of a buffalo hunt and wept with Winnetou on his father's and sister's graves.

I was there, outrunning Sauron's Wreaths to reach the last homely home, and felt the blind relief as Gollum bit through Frodo's finger and plunged to his death along with the ring.

My heart beat a little faster as Elizabeth Bennett toured Mr. Darcy's home, hoping for a glimpse of him. I held my breath as Teddy proposed to Amy March after discovering that it was not Jo that he loved.

What could be more exciting than that?

When I stop reading, and I reluctantly return to reality, I keep a lingering memory of that world between the book covers.

Escapism? Yes, that's probably it. But when the world seems like it's determined to beat up my soul, it helps to know that I can always depend on the greatest detective in the world to say, "mon ami, use your little gray cells!" and be assured that at the end of the story, the crime is always solved.