i just finished a book that i had spent the better part of the last few months reading while making my way around town to/from work/errands via public transportation.
nine hundred and thirty three pages later, it felt as though there were a death in the family: as if someone i had gotten to know, love, and admire was suddenly no more.
every story has to come to an end, and a new story will begin, yes, but for these few hours between finishing one book and picking up another, i silently weep inside at the thought of no longer having the opportunity to walk with the characters in some new adventure that they happen to find themselves in.
it’s amazing how easily i find myself emotionally invested in the characters’ lives. (i’ve even found myself a time or two thinking, “i wonder what ______ would do in this situation?”).
i’ll start the new book tonight on my commute home. for the first few pages, i’ll unfairly compare it to the last thinking how it will never be able to live up to its standard of it’s predecessor, then i’ll spend the middle portion of the book falling in love with the characters, until finally, the book will end, i’ll weep inside at the loss of characters who’ve connected themselves to me and i’ll repeat this process all over again.
begin. compare. love. end. weep. (repeat)
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