Sincere Ramblings

A package of probable disappointments

I fell in love with a book this weekend. I do that often, but this one was like how a good tuna sandwich sticks out amongst all of its disgusting peers. I had read one series by the author and hated it, and another by the author and loved it like I love water itself, so this singular book held a disproportionate amount of worrying space in my head. It was a gamble, a chance that I didn't know if I wanted to take. A package of probable disappointments and unfulfilled expectations. So, I purposefully expected nothing of it, and didn't touch it. For years. I saw it there, on the library self, nestled, as it should be, in alphabetical order between books that epitomize everything I hate about teen fiction, and books that embody everything I hope I can one day create. Then, I picked up this book. And it is everything that I purposely didn't hope it would be. I now put off reading the ending, because I abhor the notion that it will finish me, sequel-less, gasping, suddenly starving for the addiction that I didn't have yesterday. It is beautiful and suspenseful, and has turned me into a waiting and wanting mess. A mess I accept as me, as something that I can love and inspect until it becomes familiar and comfortable, and turn it into some form of art to try to express all of the feelings that I will somehow have to grow another compartment to hold.