there is a feeling that sets in right after i finish a particularly good book. a big part of it is a bereft wistfulness, an aching wanderlust for a fictional country quite out of my grasp but very much lived in in my mind, a sad longing at the factual lack of a wardrobe to transport me there. another part is amazement, a state of mental and emotional fullness with my mind and heart expanded, knowing i am not the person i was before i started.
it's like waking up from a dream, this feeling. not the kind that jolts you awake with a cold sweat, but a languorous surfacing of consciousness complete with twitching toes and stretching arms. sometimes it lasts for days. the best books last for years.
they never completely leave you either. if a passing phrase, a new face, or an unfamiliar place should remind you of a book you once enjoyed, then you should take heart.
say, i've read you before. i know you. and i understand.
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