That feeling of finishing a really, really good book…. it’s like you’ve been in the sun and then a cool breeze licks your arm and the hairs raise up and your skin ripples… It’s delicious and unnerving and you want to run into the street and yell “I’ve changed. I’ve changed! Because of this!” and waggle the book in their faces, and move it to the top of the rack at the bookshop, and write one like it but in your own voice.
Because you’ve done nothing but sink yourself into it. Stopping only to eat or pee. Minor interferences. Because you can recognise these people, these stories, these yearnings, these voices within yourself – and you want to share that with others and want them to know too – to understand. Probably to understand you a little better, but also the world around them, and themselves.
To feel the same disorienting lies and truths together.