When a Book is Over

The final word is looming. Soon followed by the final dot. The very last one of all the thousands of dots the book is made of. Would I be able one day to keep track of them?

I’m drowning. Left alone with doubts and fears. Facing my own sense of loss. Why is the party over so soon? No matter how grateful I am for the knowledge I gained, the journey I went on, the depth of the subject, what remains is a hole. An unabashed feeling smuggling through my entire body.

Bittersweet. Well, more bitter than sweet.

The pleasurable innocence of looking at a book cover with no particular idea of what these lines shelter is gone. My reality has shifted. There is no more going back. And I find myself mourning the unknowingness of a book. On top of that feeling, usually sits a longing for the hours I spent basking in the magic of those pages, getting to know a world that genuinely brought in all of my senses. With the book on my lap, I watch this dichotomy evolve inside of me without my being able to identify which part is the most painful.

How can I make peace with it?

Underneath the surface of sorrow, something wants to enter the stream of my consciousness – the roots of belonging, of renewed joy and satisfaction. I love books. And I love how they tear me apart and put me back together. I love the way they stretch my mind. The gasping for air I sometimes feel when the story turns my insides upside down. The ripple effect of inspiration that comes as a silver lining.

Books wrap me in their arms like a soft blanket. There, I’m more than welcomed. Come as you are, they seem to whisper. Take a deep dive into the human psyche, and shift your perspective about your own limited opinions. I’m committed to play that part – be the reader, the feeler, the explorer – and to play it well.

I usually need time to process what a book has really given me, how it has shaped me in a new way. How different I feel. How we were intimate companions for a period of time. Because let’s be honest, I sleep with my books. At night, somewhere amongst the crowd of pillows and sheets, they find a place to rest. Gently waiting for me to wake up in the morning. To offer some more magic. And when I feel them under my palm, I feel less alone.

Until the final words.

Then reality hits me again – our time together is up. In the last pages, I catch myself slowing down the rhythm, spending more time with a paragraph, lingering over sentences. I don’t want the book to end. I want to keep drifting away. To make sure I will embrace the essence of the story. And lose myself one more time in a realm I’ll never get to touch with my own hand.

We won’t be strangers when it’s over. But we won’t sleep together anymore.

I take one more look at the cover before putting it up on a shelf. And I tell myself that we’ll meet again. The potential is there. But it won’t be the same.