He closed the book and sighed, hating how pathetic the breath escaping between his lips sounded. Still, he couldn’t help it. Despite the book’s glorious and satisfying ending – or maybe because of it – he felt unsettled and disoriented, like that feeling of knowing that a dream is about to end and now he had to wake up. Back to reality. Back to life.
He stared at the floor, seemingly contemplating the patterns of the marble but really just letting his mind wander to wherever it usually does, an abstract, random, and most likely absurd place where everything is nothing and vice versa. A safe place of possibilities and kept promises; a gossamer fortress where the could’ve, would’ve, and should’ve keep carrying on to their own scenarios like intricate cobwebs glittering with the cool glow of wishful thinking.
Again, it was love. That idealised concept of love that has broken his heart yet kept him going; equal combinations of poison and cure mixed together in the same vial. He leaned back and this time considered the lamp hanging from the ceiling, his eyes blinking slowly; so beautiful, so lost, trapped in the utter confusion that the world mostly is, trying to find a way out and failing yet keep on trying nevertheless.
He gripped the book more tightly, unaware, in his sudden desperation to cling to a single thread of escape, of release. Maybe life’s just a great big book and he’s living his between its lines, only implied yet is never actually there; a shadow of existence trying to pass itself off as a life.