Serial Monogamist

I love books. Not the way you love Chinese food or the feeling of sand between your toes. Our intercourse is that of lovers. Each new affair begins differently: some take-off with the excitement and flush of new love; some begin long and languid, making me unsure and self-conscious. As our liaison progresses, my world becomes completely consumed by him. It is hard to distinguish where he ends and I begin. Daily thoughts run over his themes and characters as if they were intimate curves. I walk through my day in a fog; replaying his words or clever turn of phrase from the night before. His words upon my lips, soft and familiar. As I lay my head down behind my eyes I rush forward to peer down the road and attempt to see where our story is going. Sometimes the path is clear, and the thrill is in the travel, but others the way is obscured. So many possibilities swarm and mill about that the joy is in exploring each in turn. Opening his pages, he takes me further and further down his road, into his world.

But then, alas, as all things in my life, this too must end. No matter what kind of relationship we had, there will be the day when my fingers dance upon the last page. This moment is always bittersweet. It is the culmination of the thousands and thousands of words that proceed; all questions are answered, all sub-plots resolved, the length of the road seen. It leaves me feeling completed and whole Although, it is also the moment that I have to say good-bye, good-bye to his protagonist that is as familiar as actual friends, the moment I must leave his vivid world, the moment our interlude ends. Hollow and empty, he has given me all he can. He no longer hold any secrets or mysteries for me to rejoice in discovering. Our time together has ended, but the love I felt while between his pages will always be with me; it is part of me.

Literature pulses through my veins and pervades my soul. Nothing can replace Vladimir Nabokov lamenting, "Lolita, Lolita"; hearing his need and desperation in that one word. John Steinbeck taught me that there is beauty in even a turtle crossing a dust covered road. Who can not read Ernest Hemingway and taste the sea in their mouth? Each book falls into my past and alters my course forward. Each time I gain new words to express all the depth of my person or a different way of looking all that surrounds me. Each washes over my brain like a single wave washing over quartz, until their cumulative affect has left something entirely different from what was once there. With an eye facing forward, the question becomes whom will I take to bed with me tonight? Will it be Irvin, or Joyce, or perhaps will I once again rendezvous to Orwell? One can never tell, that is the fun in being a serial monogamist.