He lives in the words he has read, in the lives of people he has read about, in their dreams and ambitions and with each different character, he finds something he can call his. A small scar, a similar habit, a strange hobby, a favorite word, a small fetish. Yet with each person, he leaves a little of himself. The person which a certain line reminded him of, a memory that he associated with that paragraph, a tear in the paper as he opened the pages, a strand of hair that fell of his hair as he slept, cuddling the book like a lover.
Perhaps it is not wise to derive yourself, to build and make yourself from things borrowed and lent. But maybe, that is the point. Perhaps, he felt so tired of making himself, building, constructing himself from a defined box of adjectives- funny, bore, happy, witty, lonesome- instead of memories associated with that adjective that he just couldn’t take it.
Maybe for him, happiness was when he was with his friends, or when he could dance to his heart’s content, or maybe relaxation for him was snuggling next to his favorite book and maybe, contentment was when he could see the sunrise.
Maybe doubt for him is when he isn’t sure if the red blazer goes with the black shoes.
This way, he isn’t angry or sad, or depressed or happy or content or peaceful, he is a sunset and he is a song or he is the green couch you know you’d never use. He is now a bundle of memories. He is with Peeta and he is with Juliet and he is with Martin Luther King Jr and he is with Gandhi and he is with Marilyn Monroe and he with Beatles and he is with Peter Norman and he is with Sachin Tendulkar and he is with Caesar as he gets stabbed and he is with Simon Beauvoir on his last journey and he is with Voldemort as he makes his horcrux.
This way, he is everywhere, and everywhere is him.
But right now?
Right now, he is just a page marked in yet another book, preparing to be a part of a yet another universe when he leaves the smell of his favourite cologne in between its sheets.
The World Past Me 