Books and Reading

I read to escape.

Real life is messy.   Real life is people dying, kids getting drug addicted, mom’s getting depressed, dad’s losing jobs, and lots of other messy, uncomfortable things.

I read to escape the reality for just a while.

I want to see things tied up into a tight little bow, all loose ends cleared up, everyone living happily ever after.

I want the fantasy of good things happening to good people and the bad guys get what they deserve.

I want someone who struggles with life circumstances rising above, developing a good circle of friends who support her when her life goes to shit and she eventually overcomes that last horrible thing.

What I don’t want… is to have the main character die.  I don’t want the story to reflect real life.  I don’t want a child to grow up without a mother.  A father to grieve the loss of his life partner, friends to try to figure out how to adjust to the huge hole in their circle.

And I don’t want to read this just before I go to bed and have to try to manage the grief that overwhelms me.

I don’t want to have to try to explain to the man who loves me how a book that I read threw me in a tailspin of grief.

I read to escape.  Last night I didn’t expect to escape into a piece of my own life.

Tear Composition

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