There’s been a book sitting on the side table since last Wednesday. I’m about halfway through and looking forward to finishing it.
Yesterday I ordered a new book — It will arrive Friday.
I really want to read the new book, but now feel bad about the book I haven’t finished yet, as if it has a personality, an ego, that will be bruised if I decline to finish it before starting another.
I don’t know why I feel this way. It’s only a book.
It’s never only a book.
There’s a world sitting on the side table, beside a brown empty mug with dark remnants of coffee at the bottom. The world is well thought out, everyone is dressed nicely, everything was going just fine, until the turmoil of the plot started to unfold.
The new book is an autobiography, so now I’m left to decide what to do first. Do I finish reading the book of fiction, created by the author to entertain, or the autobiography, crafted by the author to offer a look inside his mind?
Both are worlds created by the author, both are worlds unlike the one I know.