On a void and much restlessness.

**Spoiler alert**

I was reading Chimamanda’s Americanah. Maybe, now that I think of it, I was not reading it as much as I was living it and breathing it. All rather aggressively. I went from word to word, page to page, chapter to chapter devouring everything rapidly. And then. It got over. Americanah got over just like that. The door opened, he walked in, she stayed calm, the predictable kiss did not happen and it got over. I was outraged. I wanted the book to go on. I could read on after the door shut. Why would there be nothing more? Why couldn’t there be nothing more? And I didn’t want a little more. Oh no! I wanted a whole lot more after the ending. But obviously there was no point in wanting because I was not getting any more. So I shut the book, fumed some and then roamed around nursing my restlessness.

Since Americanah, I have read The Perks of being a Wallflower. It was nice in parts but didn’t calm me down. I tried reading Astray but couldn’t get myself to read beyond two pages. Then I started Two Lives which was soothing some but I was still looking for something else. I started reading Wild yesterday. Gave up on it today. Have decided to go back to Two Lives which will hopefully keep me afloat for the time being.

And, and. I haven’t bought The Lowland yet because I’m too worried about how I will feel once I finish. [*Insert eye roll here*]

Terrible how these things are – developing relationships with books, romancing them and drowning in them when all they leave you with is a large looming void and the nagging feeling of wanting more.

I wish I could be a distant reader, you know. Not get involved. Read under bright lights, sip my tea. Not let it have me and not give myself to it.