I met Aeneas not in a Latin class (thankfully) but in the middle of a thunderstorm, curled up in my JNU University hostel with a paperback that smelled like the past — that old-paper scent that makes you feel like you’re holding time itself. I flipped past the preface, landed in Carthage, and before I knew it, was ankle-deep in the ruins of Troy, watching a man walk not just through battles and burning cities — but through the expectations of gods, ghosts, and history.
Virgil’s Aeneid is many things at once: a national myth, a grief-soaked survival saga, a manifesto of destiny. But in these selected books — the love and loss of Dido (Book 4), the descent into the underworld (Book 6), the final clash of empires (Book 12) — you don’t just follow Aeneas. You become him. Hesitating. Haunted. Heroic but heartbroken.
Reading it, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of carrying worlds on one’s back. Especially as someone who once moved cities, left behind loves and languages, trying to be “dutiful” when all I wanted was rest. Aeneas’s journey made me realise: sometimes, the real war is not what lies ahead, but what we carry inside.