Most of the times it feels like a monumental kind of choice.
Everytime I read a book, I sink into it. I get lost in its story, and suffer and rejoice… I worry and laugh and cry. I fall in love with the guy and with the girl. I get to know a new place and, by the end, almost feel like I’ve live there before.
So, choosing a new book to start reading feels important. But, at the same time, it doesn’t.
There is always a growing pile of books waiting to be read and everytime a book has been completed, the compulsion to grab another is almost a physical ache. I know I must just take one. A lot of the times, it depends in the book I just finished. If what I want is to hold on to the previous one, to slowly cleanse myself from a story that refuses to leave me… Then, I will need to choose a book that follows the same rhythm or evokes the same feeling.
Those times is when the choice is the most difficult it takes the longest. Sometimes, I just need a clean break and I will grab the first thing that my fingers touch. Hopefully something completely different.
Just what I hoped to get when my hand reached out and my finger chose a new book for me to read.
Let’s breath in and jump into 1984 with George Orwell.