the end
January 6, 2013 § 2 Comments
There is no sadder ending than that which comes too soon. A new book, now old, mysteries unraveled dispelling the allure of the unknown. With each page I fought against familiar tendencies to stow away with my story, hiding from responsibilities, breathing the words like physical sustenance; feasting without patience too eager for each subsequent word. This story crafted intentionally and layered with imagery begged for stillness and so I forced myself to give each line attention; extending each phrase with unpracticed emphasis like a child testing a new word aloud. Placing paper pages in a state of unrest I moved through simple housekeeping tasks over the weekend while my mind wandered, weighing the characters’ plights, intentionally inviting the author’s company into my thoughts. The end has brought an emptiness and I am lonely for words to fill a new beginning.
scribblechic 
I remember being devastated when I finished reading the Hunger Games trilogy. I read and re-read the ending, sobbing each time, for nearly a week. Melodramatic? Maybe. But I needed to mourn losing those characters who were so real to me.
Not melodramatic. I think the best stories are the ones that simultaneously take us outside ourselves while winding themselves around our hearts.