I just finished the last of my new books, and it wasn’t soon enough. I don’t know that I could ever be prepared for the story of a young girl fighting and losing a battle against leukemia. I predicted the outcome within the first fifty pages, yet I continued to read anyway. I guess it’s my fault after all that I’m a bit depressed and upset now.
I hate it when books do that to me. I keep reminding myself it’s fiction, but that doesn’t change the fact that even though this exact story didn’t happen in real life, very similar stories do. All the time.
I hope and pray that never happens in my family. I don’t think I would have the strength to bear it.
I really want to go to sleep now, but I’m afraid my mind is racing too fast to relax. Of course, it would have been even worse if I had made myself stop reading sooner. The book was too painful to drag out. I just had to rush through the ending, like ripping off a Band-aid.
A week ago when I finished all the books I had that could stand a re-reading, I was eager to run out and buy more. Now I welcome the respite from reading. I definitely need a break after that last one.
Along those same lines, I finally started writing that book that’s been running through my mind for years. It’s a sad attempt, but I’ll feel better getting it down on paper. I think that’s probably how I’ll spend my time for the next few days, instead of reading. The change of pace will do me good.