when pages turned to props

There was a time when reading was not just about the book—it was about the spectacle. I would sit in a well-lit corner, a book in hand, and let the world see me. I made sure the title was impressive, or at least difficult. The goal was never just to read, but to be seen reading. Reading was my currency, my proof of intellect. It was how I marked myself as different, as superior.

I read because I wanted to be the kid who knew things, the one who could recite facts and reference authors that other children had never heard of. I didn’t read for the joy of the story—I read to win. To prove something. To be someone. Books were trophies, not experiences.

But somewhere along the way, that stopped working.

I am no longer the precocious child with a book too large for his hands. I am 21, surrounded by people who read just as much as I did, or more. No one was impressed anymore. Worse still, I wasn’t impressed with myself. Reading had lost its magic because it is no longer a performance. Without an audience, books became just books. I find myself unable to pick them up with the same urgency. Without external validation, reading felt empty, like a party trick no one cared to see anymore.

I tried to chase that old feeling, but it was like trying to trick myself into believing in Santa again. I bought books that looked impressive on my shelf. I started novels with the same grand intentions. But I rarely finished them. And when I did, I felt nothing. No applause, no sense of accomplishment—just the hollow realization that reading alone, for myself, was not enough.

Maybe that’s the problem. Reading had always been a means to an end, a way to craft an identity rather than explore a world. And now, stripped of its performative element, I had to figure out whether I actually loved it at all. Had I ever read for myself? Did I even know what I liked to read? Or had I just been consuming whatever would make me look the best?

I wonder if this is why so many people stop reading in adulthood. As children, reading is either an obligation or a way to stand out. But when the pressure fades, when the audience disappears, we’re left staring at books and wondering if we ever truly enjoyed them or just enjoyed what they said about us.

So, what now? Do I walk away from reading, accept that it was never mine to begin with? Or do I start over, this time quietly, without expectation? Maybe I need to read the books that call to me, not the ones that I think will impress others. Maybe I need to fall in love with stories, not with the idea of being seen reading them. Maybe, after years of performance, I need to learn how to read for real.

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