And than, the chapter ended, the book was closed, the story finished. I breath out the air I held in longer than I thought. For a second I feld empty, lost and alone. But nothing could prepare me for the storm of emotions that quickly followed . So much hurt, so much love. So much I felt but fail to explain. Even though the writer decided the story was finished, my head wil make a million sequels. Sequels that wil never be written down or told, but where my thought wil go through every day, until I feel satisfide and abel to let the story just be that, a story. I guess life is a bit like that. No matter how hard you try, thinks wil always end. It wil make you feel things, you might not be able to express. Only in life there are no sequels. Things just end, you can't reread it or chance something when you don't like it. I guess that is why I like books more than people. Books can make me forget time, place and reality. People just make me aware of it. And in a world full of hate, pain and despair, that is the last thing that i want. That is the last thing that I need.
