Do you know that feeling when you are on the last page of a good book? The settling of a story. A good story that leaves you grieving at it’s finality. As if friends, foes, and strangers you’ve never known have come to conclusion. Their lives are over. Their stories rest quietly in your head.
The sweetness of last words as the author tries to wrap up the imaginations of the heart, and end with purpose. oh. it sets free spirits. the readers, the authors, the characters.
Is this like death? Is that morbid? I can’t help but think that my reactions towards good conclusions in books will be magnified at my death. The culmination of a life. of a book. Maybe I’m just feeling this way because the book I just finished (five minutes ago) ended with the characters death. The death of the character cushioned by the death of the book. The death of my character cushioned by the death of my narrative.
The narrative of my life. I want to spread it like butter. I want to keep it close like my Mary necklace. I want it to take hands with those yet to come, and share kisses with those already gone.
There’s just something about a good book. I’m going to need some time to let this one sink into the sands of my memory before I pick up a new friend.
That’s one thing about China, plenty of time to read and read and read read read. And rest your weary head on a shoulder.