I just finished the entire Twilight series. Wow. I feel a little... empty, dazed, and wistful. (Nothing I wasn't feeling before, but it's all stronger now.) I love getting wrapped up in a story -- that was a fabulous read. Don't gasp, but I actually read all four books twice in two weeks. (Yes, my bed still got made and I still made dinners, too.) Since I've been feeling so miserable, it's been necessary to anesthetize myself; I am grateful to Stephanie Meyer for providing a story in which I could safely suspend myself.
One of the benefits of reading is being able to think about your own life more objectively. You can compare your choices, your experiences, your motivations, your longings and such with many other people's (fictional or real) and observe the possibilities. The empty, dazed, and wistful feelings I have were already there, as I said. It was nice to read about how some fictional person dealt with her life... but I do have to figure out what to do with my life.
I do so love a good story. I want my life to be a good story. This past week I've found that I wish I understood myself better. I wish I understood other people better. I wish I could think straight -- these days it's tough to string more than 7 words together into anything coherent. I see a pattern of sameness that isn't to be confused with contentment and satisfaction. I have love, though, and for that I am very grateful. How to proceed from here... how to move out of the monotonous sameness into... whatever else there is, that's the question. I am worth whatever the answer to that question is. I am worth being a good story.
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