The choice to put down an enthralling book full of suspense and literary horror, one with which
you fall in love with and become entangled in the details and traits of the main character, seems (for lack
of better words) idiotic. Especially when you’re setting the book down, never to be touched again.
The portion of the book that you’ve read and pondered and dwelled within will slowly fade from
your memory. You’ll start to forget your favorite page numbers, and the memorable moments that kept
you reading. You’ll forget the details you learned to know and love about the main characters, and the
small but eloquent ways that the author kept you awake 3 hours later than you should have been with a
tear stained face but an undying love for the plot twists that were around the corner. You’ll forget a lot of
things about the book you loved, no matter how much you try to keep it alive within your mind.
The ending of the book will haunt you for what seems like forever. You will lie awake at night,
wondering what you missed or how the character you loved grew or reached a turning point or
conquered their troubles. You’ll wonder if it was a happy or devastating ending, and whether or not you
would have been able to deal with what you had read. When browsing a book shelf somewhere in town,
you’ll be horrified to see it sitting there amongst the other novels and magazines, and you’ll wonder if
anyone else is caught in the depths of its story like you once were. You’ll wonder forever. It’ll become
less frequent and when it does cross your mind you won’t long to turn those wrinkled and tattered pages
anymore, you’ll just wonder and try to ignore the stabbing urge to find it and pick it up all over again.
You’ll even forget the all so familiar smell of the pages you’d called home for so long.
You can’t pick up the fucking book, and you can’t forget the fucking book.
You have to let it collect dust and wait for someone else to pick it up who might have what it
takes to read it to the very last page and then start all over again, because you tried for so long and you
couldn’t. You’ll wonder if the next reader will pause in the places you did to revel in the fear, excitement,
torture and joy that were your favorite chapters.
I can’t help but think that I should have burned the book.
Fuck that book.
– Cara Sombrero