My books are my life. I carry them around with me wherever I go; wherever I am they accompany me, bother me, pick away at me like children.
But then children learn to grow up, and at some point you ought to let them go. Ought–letting go as an obligation, “letting go” as an ending. Much like books…everything has an ending. Everything has to end.
A little sadness-just a little sadness-creeps in when I reach the last chapter of a book. The feeling is so overwhelming sometimes it, or the thought of an ending, is enough to make me cry; an emotion so powerful, it can bring me to my knees. It’s not a pleasant thing to experience, but what an experience all the same.
I never want a book to end. Ever. When I read, I’m caught up in a fantasy so colorful, so divorced from my own reality, the only thing I want to do at that moment is to get lost, to go deeper, to cycle through another universe, ad infinitum. Do you feel the same way too?
P.S Pictures are unrelated. I took them yesterday. Photography by Teegee Villanueva
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