I experience the worst kind of sadness every time I read the last sentence in a really brilliant book.
It feels like the end. Almost like death. It’s sort of like changing worlds. Like I was on a big adventure in this utopian world where anything was possible, where I became a new character, felt varying emotions, with every chapter.
Of course you can understand why I don’t exactly welcome the idea of crawling back in to my seemingly unfamiliar skin, in the company of confusing emotions and rather sickening thoughts.
I cling to the last word reading it over and over again, analysing and breaking it down, mentally forming different fates, different outcomes, refusing to let go.
In a moment of deluded lunacy, I tend to always turn the page hoping perhaps there might be more words hidden on the hard cover. Or perhaps if I stare long enough words might appear. Or maybe if I take a nap I’ll wake up to one more chapter cause surely if it happened to Ruth in A Tale For The Time Being why couldn’t it happen to me?
Naturally, coming to an abrupt halt and feeling the glorious high slowly recede to expose a harsh rather mundane reality, can be quite depressing. I imagine this feeling can easily compare to withdrawal symptoms from a strong addictive drug.
Perhaps it won’t be too long until I knowingly relapse and seek a desperately much-needed high again.
Perhaps I already have.