She left the same way in which she came,
with her life stuffed into
two large suitcases,
too small to fit all the memories and people,
that she knew she’d carry in her heart.
I love books so much that when I get to the end, I slow down, because the end of the book will also mark the end of not just the book but my love affair with it. I want to live on that page, in that sentence, and sometimes, in that very word, for as long as I can. There’s nothing like the joy one gets when they read something and see a part of themselves they never knew existed, expressed in the words of someone they’ve never met, and for a brief second, realizes how it’s possible to be alone and yet, completely connected to one another.
There’s a comfort in knowing that none of my thoughts are really original but recycled, up-cycled at best really; that everything I’m saying has been said before me, and will mostly be said, well after I’m long gone. And when I sit down with a good book, thinking to myself, no one else will ever love it the way I do, the truth is, at that very same moment, someone else on the other side of the world is probably thinking the exact same thing.
Together, we are alone, and connected.
That is the power of a book, of a thought, of a moment.
I know I’m supposed to fear the end, at least by society’s standards, and yet there are moments when I can’t help but appreciate that nothing is forever. For knowing this forces me to embrace what’s in front of me, a horizon gently kissing the rooftops of Coruña. It is but a moment, but in it, I am completely fulfilled. Not before long it’ll be gone, and so will I. And for once, this simple truth is a sweet comfort. After all, today’s ending brings tomorrow’s beginnings.