Epiphany at the Hands of a Paperback

(Not exactly a paperback... a scanned Japanese manga is more accurate.)

Lately, I've done nothing but read stories-- any story. In between a job I am not sure I like to do anymore and a fog whose origins are confusing, I have been reading stories to help myself breathe. But I have a confession to make, I have never finished reading most of these stories. I've finished a few, yes. But my start rate is way, way lower than my completion rate. I stopped reading If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, The Cave, and dozens of other stuff halfway to the end. 

This I did not understand. I like endings as much as the conflict, as much as the denouement of a story, as much as its build up. I look forward to it. I remember reading those good stories really fast just to get to the end and reading it really slowly to enjoy the words-- the sounds, the literary devices that thankfully I still recognize, the feel of the words. 

But up until lately that was no more. I did not think highly of it. Everything in my life was going well. I have a job that pays well. My family and my friends are all well. My relationship is doing well. It would be ungrateful to sulk and complain. And so it went for a while. I read stuff halfway through no matter how good they are. I stopped writing too-- completely. Well, not completely, I would start but not finish. Everything I did was done halfway through except stuff at work. 

I read. I wrote. I stopped. 

Then, I remembered this anime I saw on TV once. I never got to the end of it. I looked it up and found out that it has a manga. I read it. I was as emotionally detached as a sponge reading its scans. I just wanted to know how it ended. I got to the end. Then, I cried. 

I cried not because the story was good or cathartic. I cried because I understood why I stopped reading most of the good stories and novels I came across. I understood why all I had were beginnings of a thought or a paragraph. The desire to find out what the ending to that story was my subconscious checkmating my conscious self. It's time to understand.

Because, ladies and gentlemen, I was scared of endings. When everything in my life was going so well, it was dreadful to even think that some of these things will end. It took a crappy piece of literature to unmask my fear. I was avoiding the end of those stories because closing a book for good would bring the sadness, a sadness that is so prevalent and so heavy you can feel it in the air around you. You'd lose a character that you 'dorkily' think is real. Loss, oh, I would not even begin with that. I was being a coward. Those books were symbols of the good things I have in my Life. And I would be broken into pieces if I lose any of these characters in my Life right now-- real or imaginary. I guess happiness can do that, or can it? Because that's how I felt. Or maybe because up until now, happiness and contentment still make me uncomfortable. Either way, I was being cowardly. Only cowards are afraid of endings. The brave see endings as crucial conclusions to new preludes in Life. The brave know that while things sure do come to an end, memories are always there to remember and revisit. I would like to think I am brave. ^_^

So I collect my books, in print and in electronic form; I gather whatever scrap of writing I can find, and I'll finish what I've started.