I hate finishing a book, or even finishing rereading a book. As I near the end I’m so excited, only fifty pages to go, forty, thirty, twenty, ten.. and at about ten or less I start to realize that once it’s over I won’t be able to read more. Sure, I can reread it, but rereading it JUST as I finish it makes it even worse because I already know what happens and it’s fresh in my mind; odds are I started reading or rereading it that same day or the night before. Now that I’ve finished this book, which normally happens when it’s the last book in a series I’ve really gotten into, I don’t know what to do with myself.

 Everything seems sorta hollow because those characters had grown in my mind… and now they’re just gone. No book I could possibly read right then could compare to this magnificent art piece I just finished, no matter how great it seemed before when I’d read it a few months ago, I just finished this book, there is no way that it could compare at all. The characters wouldn’t live up to the expectations, the style of the author would be completely messed up, and the fictional world, oh the world, would be flat compared to what I’ve just read.

It’s like everything has just simply ended and I can’t start anything new, the old is still too fresh and too there. But it’s still gone, no matter how ”there” it is, it’s still gone from my grasp. And then that ending that just happened, I’m so mad at it because it doesn’t matter how great it was, it was the end and will forever be hated by me whole-heartedly. Why can’t books just endlessly go on? Continuing until the characters lives have expired, it would make letting go easier, I think. Cry about it and get over those fictional characters that have grown on me, like I get over it when a character dies during the middle of a book. I’m upset for a while, yelling at the author because that character, no matter who it was or if it was true, happened to be my favorite and so I could never get over the fact that he or she is now dead. How could it happen?!

Then, of course, only a few pages or chapters later, depending on the character and how interested I am in the book, the death of the beloved character doesn’t seem as bad. They had to die at that moment, I’m okay with that. The book ending however, is not okay. My mind can’t make up the rest of their lives! My ideas for it wouldn’t be right, this is the author’s world, therefore only the author can finish it for me. Oh, and it must be finished lest I become insane.

This happens nearly every week, and if these authors would just devote their lives to finishing the lives of these characters, (because that’s what should happen; they would make enough money off of it) I wouldn’t go into some bizarre depression-like state so often. Maybe I’d even talk more, and not have crazy dreams about the books repeatedly until I find a new book, and have let go of this book enough, moving on.. until it happens all over again with something else.