In less than a day, I read a 525 page book.
I haven’t immersed myself in books for a while. Lately, the pegging desire to read has grown stronger. I like this feeling. I think, I’ve always liked the burning sensation I feel when I’m lost in a book. When I was younger, my family and I would travel often – going from state to state, church to church, house to house – luckily, reading in the car never made me sick. I remember, the void I’d create between myself and everything around. Each time I started a book, I lost the sense of reality and crossed a barrier into this new world.
To tell you the truth, this state of being reminds me of intoxication. I’ve drunk alcohol a little too much (in this recent year) to know the feeling of intoxication. Normally, I feel very relaxed and get extremely tired way too soon – also, I have a case of giggles. Each time alcohol has dominated my body, I’ve felt my mind break into two understandings. It’s like one of me sits backs and watches. It sees everything happening and knows what I should and shouldn’t be doing, but doesn’t feel complied to act. Meanwhile, the other me acts.
I feel this way when I read. I feel my mind get lost in this story and is aware of my withdraw from the world around. My mind knows it, sees it and feels it but willingly stays in this state of detachment. The growing need to know the end of the story overrules everything else. I simply don’t care if I’ll miss something happening around me. Maybe this will be the last time I’ll see someone for a while. Well, during my time lost in a book, I don’t care. My greed only wants to know the end.
I give up one thing to have another. Perhaps, this loss is different to my loss with intoxication, but somehow in my brain the two are similar. In both cases, I am both the observer and the participant.
And so, as I came to the end of my reading, I realized the hunger rising in my stomach. My greediness to know the end. I’m five pages from the last words and I know, in my mind, I know this book will not end here. I hope and expect the ending to satisfy me but as I read the end, I am not. I want to wail because how can the second book of a trilogy bring any satisfaction, when the third book will probably still leave me unsatisfied?
Then as my heart slows and I understand (by remembering) this was all but a story, I relax. Perhaps, I am unsatisfied because this world is unsatisfying.
Never mind, I decided – in awe – how beautiful, that one should write a story, another should find such undying delight in.