The disorientation you feel after putting down a good, or even a mediocre book, is a testament to the human tendency of escapism. You might not want to get lost in the contrived philosophical, borderline impossible lives of unreal teenagers and yet, and yet in a whirlwind of language and good metaphors, you awake after living in the dreams of those very characters.
Or them having lived in yours.
Does it matter? Because at that moment of awakening, after those few hours away from your predictable, dreary, plot-less life, people around you and those characters seem interchangeable. Your self seems terminable.
You could simply wear another skin and become that single most interesting character, who is the ‘saving’ grace of the book. As if that could make up for your inability to ‘save’ the real world, like you dream of.
For that moment, like those few hours, lost to rhetoric, you could breathe from a different skin.
And it’s difficult to wake up from that- the awakening is even incapacitating, until you manage to jot down exactly why it is so, and slowly prepare your brain to return to reality. Not to mention, comfort your own suddenly insecure skin.