On Christmas Day 2012, from 8 to 11 PM, I lived in Middle Earth.
Afterwards in my 3D glasses-induced stupor I stumbled about still lost in the hazy wonders of the first Hobbit film. In the car on the way to the theaters, the cold shadows and lonely streetlights might have consumed my soul (like they often do) had it not been for the knowledge that—I was finally going to see The Hobbit! I was going home, home to Middle-Earth!
Leftovers from the comic book era often write that comic books were a place for themselves as children to hide under the warzone of the adult world. Likewise Middle-Earth was and is my solace, a place of refuge, an escape route for when the darkness of young adulthood and the cruelty of a corrupted world creep in and tap their bony fingers on my window pane. I would draw myself close, and spend hours rereading the books and poring over old maps. I sketched my favorite characters and scrolled through online fanbases, pretending, just for a little while, that I had discovered my own world, a place where wizened wizards defeated the foes for me; a place where evil was always conquered. I had found a world where fantastical creatures lived on my doorstep and the everyday deeds of little people mattered.
I pay Peter Jackson his due respects, for summoning the powers of computer graphic imaging and Oceanic geography to capture this mythical place. But my gratitude is for Professor Tolkien, who breathed life into this barren landscape of parchment and ink. There is something so real about Middle-Earth; something so incredibly genuine about the Misty Mountains and the rolling green hills of the Shire. Even the critics have to say that it is as though Tolkien “found a hidden chapter of history.”
Others choose Hogwarts or immerse themselves in the life of a secret agent, but Middle-Earth trekkers are solitary seekers, not merely in it for the thrill. We who dwell incorporeally amongst the yellowed pages and between the fading black words—we are looking for something. Most if not all are seeking a place where there is a watchful peace and the troubles of the world are kept at bay for just a little bit. I am too. But above it all, deeper within, I know that I am searching for my heart that has taken root in the beautiful world of Middle-Earth.
In the days before exams and big red deadlines, I will often find myself wishing for just another minute to finish just one more chapter of Beleriand’s history; or begging for another rewatch of the trilogy. I know I cannot stay here forever, but while I can, I will. Until the day I find my heart somewhere in the Mines of Moria or the Iron Hills, I just want to thank you, Mr. Tolkien, for providing me with a temporary heaven.
Sincerely,
Just Another Endearing Fan
Afterwards in my 3D glasses-induced stupor I stumbled about still lost in the hazy wonders of the first Hobbit film. In the car on the way to the theaters, the cold shadows and lonely streetlights might have consumed my soul (like they often do) had it not been for the knowledge that—I was finally going to see The Hobbit! I was going home, home to Middle-Earth!
Leftovers from the comic book era often write that comic books were a place for themselves as children to hide under the warzone of the adult world. Likewise Middle-Earth was and is my solace, a place of refuge, an escape route for when the darkness of young adulthood and the cruelty of a corrupted world creep in and tap their bony fingers on my window pane. I would draw myself close, and spend hours rereading the books and poring over old maps. I sketched my favorite characters and scrolled through online fanbases, pretending, just for a little while, that I had discovered my own world, a place where wizened wizards defeated the foes for me; a place where evil was always conquered. I had found a world where fantastical creatures lived on my doorstep and the everyday deeds of little people mattered.
I pay Peter Jackson his due respects, for summoning the powers of computer graphic imaging and Oceanic geography to capture this mythical place. But my gratitude is for Professor Tolkien, who breathed life into this barren landscape of parchment and ink. There is something so real about Middle-Earth; something so incredibly genuine about the Misty Mountains and the rolling green hills of the Shire. Even the critics have to say that it is as though Tolkien “found a hidden chapter of history.”
Others choose Hogwarts or immerse themselves in the life of a secret agent, but Middle-Earth trekkers are solitary seekers, not merely in it for the thrill. We who dwell incorporeally amongst the yellowed pages and between the fading black words—we are looking for something. Most if not all are seeking a place where there is a watchful peace and the troubles of the world are kept at bay for just a little bit. I am too. But above it all, deeper within, I know that I am searching for my heart that has taken root in the beautiful world of Middle-Earth.
In the days before exams and big red deadlines, I will often find myself wishing for just another minute to finish just one more chapter of Beleriand’s history; or begging for another rewatch of the trilogy. I know I cannot stay here forever, but while I can, I will. Until the day I find my heart somewhere in the Mines of Moria or the Iron Hills, I just want to thank you, Mr. Tolkien, for providing me with a temporary heaven.
Sincerely,
Just Another Endearing Fan
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