When I read a book that holds my imaginative will to become part of it's narrative landscape, then I have great sorrow as the book draws to an end; and this sadness then lingers on and stays with me for days. I laugh at myself over this, but my own self deprecation does little to lessen the pain of separation I go through, when I am parted by the finality of the ending of the book. I am not a great story-teller myself, yet I grew up with a strange habit where I created a sequential module of stories in my head that grew as parallel lives in my imagination, and were very vivid spaces by virtue of the detailed manner they were developed by me. These were orbits of comfort where I would take myself to, when the reality of my existence proved tedious.
I was reminded of this when I recently finished (after a very protracted period of time) Evening is the whole day by Preeti Samarasan, which is a book I have already recommended when I initially began entering the delight of this magical story. Though I would have changed the last chapter and the ending (!) I loved the book so much that I felt I was being removed from a space of belonging. As though my space of comfort to which I could spirit myself away to, was suddenly demolished as an act of spite.
I buy books and save them to read later (like a secret chocolate stash that no one else is supposed to discover), painting images of myself on the veranda's of our home, where with feet tucked-up I will read book after book from dawn to dusk; and transpose my life into a thousand other worlds of being. But with the adrenalin rush that rules my life and trains my focus on other areas of commitment I have promised my spirit to, I know that I will read as I continue to: snatched pages in-between the hectic pace of my studio practice and other facets of my life that I choose to be involved with.
As is the process I will fret for a while and push aside the offerings of book that others may suggest, till I know I can give my mind to another book without still feeling an umbilical attachment with the spirit of what I have finished reading. I will open my library (always with the pretense of doing something else), and let my eyes start wandering over the "saved away" titles. This will go on for a few days before I take down a book to read it's synopsis on the back of the cover. The point of connection is when I let the delight settle ever so faintly (like a tickle?), and then I know that a new world of belonging awaits me.