Tuesday, August 9, 2011

A Good Book, but the Wrong Book

I just finished John Hart's, "The Last Child".  It was captivating; my heart raced as I read - page after page read at night until I couldn't keep my eyes open.

Then I fell asleep and had nightmares.

The book was suspenseful, full of death and pedophiles, domestic abuse, drug abuse, alcohol abuse.  It all kept my attention.

But at what cost.

Nightmares, a heaviness in my heart even heavier than what I've been carrying around.  The words were all so thrilling, but I ache inside.

Just as I avoid movies about injustices such as these, why did I think I could read a book, up until the last seconds of my day, and not feel the consequences in the morning?

I feel heavy and sad, with the tiny thrill-seeking side of me satisfied while the rest of my soul trembles.

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