Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

It laid in my lap, a delicious weight.


I held it up, surprisingly light and compact for all the enormity of its contents that lay beyond the first three pages. A sense of surreal crept over me. It's just a book, paper and ink, but it's also so much more, so very much more.

I started reading the first of the series in Primary six, a wee age of 12, at the threshold of adolescence. And now, I stand at the cusp of my teenage hood at 18, and I'm about to come to and end of my Harry Potter journey.

It's fitting, somehow.

When I wrote this entry, I have not flipped to the first chapter yet. The only text that I've picked off from the book is the front blurb and the back page about Rowling. Like a highly anticipated gift, I was reluctant to jump straight into the story, having wait for close to two years for this moment, I felt it deserve more ceremony. It doesn't seem right to just read off the bat without savoring the pre moments of finally possessing it and finally, finally knowing. I fingered the heavy gold embossed texture of the letters on the cover, the anticipation and longing is overwhelming.

I know I sound like a psychotic cult geekfan but when it comes to this particular bespectacled boy and his world, I'm not ashamed to say that is exactly what I am. Those who had the fortune to lose themselves thoroughly and completely in this amazing realm created by Rowling can empathize with me, I'm sure.

The reason why I'm writing this is because I want to remember this delicious feeling of blessed unknowing before entering the story. I want it written down in black and white, in indelible words so that I will be able to remember this sense of trembling anticipation, like moments before embarking on that trip you've been longing to go all your life, especially during the inevitable post-ending depression that will come when I finally put down the book.

See you 603 pages later.