Books and tears

I'm reading a book right now...

I've put it down to write this and when I'm finished with this blog entry, I'll pick it up again.

I'm reading a book right now and I hate it.

I hate it for making fear and sadness and grief and guilt well up inside me and overwhelm everything I would otherwise be feeling.

I hate it for casting a dark shadow on a day that should have been one of rest and recalibration and has now instead become a jangling and restless counting of minutes and pages.

I hate it for the tears that have been streaming unchecked and uncontrollable down my face for the last hour as I've been reading it.

And I hate myself for picking it up. For lying when I told myself that I'll just read a few pages and then put it back on the shelf. For swallowing each bitter chapter, choking on the words and emotions and still greedily reaching for more. For knowing all the while what it will do to me and being unable to put it down.

It's sitting right next to me, waiting to be picked up, mocking me by the innocuousness of its almost cozy cover. Of course I'll pick it up... and I'll hate putting it down when it's over.