I’ve just finished reading a book. I strode into Book-Off with an objective: arm myself with light reading. The purpose of these books are not to keep me up at night, debating my life choices. I specifically selected books that would require the minimum amount of focus and emotional investment. (The very definition of “light reading.”) A couple books on supernatural activity in high school, fairytale-esque reads about girls learning to live happily-ever-after in their mundane teenage lives, even one about a teenager who can see dead people; all found in the Young Adult section, of course.

Despite my careful selection and determination to feel nothing, I still feel like my emotions were rubbed raw.

And the book wasn’t even particularly emotional.

Generation Undead by Daniel Waters isn’t a bad book. It’s your typical, high school, boy-loves-girl, resurrected undead, bullies and goth kids, love story. It’s light and a bit funny and it tackles the issue of segregation and judgement in American society.

By the end, I felt so empty, so incomplete, that I wasn’t sure what to do. An hour later, and my mind is still blank. It’s like looking through a filmy haze; I blink, but it’s still there.

I can’t focus, but I have the overwhelming urge to do something, anything. So, I started writing today’s post. I didn’t know where I was going with this (and I still don’t), but my pen won’t slow down (so much so that my handwriting is illegible to anyone but me). (I realize that I have to type this out, just trust me on the handwriting thing.)

How is it that a book can make me feel so much? It’s just a combination of letters. Just words thrown on a page.

No. It’s more than that. It’s feeling and understanding condensed into 392 pages of careful scrutiny and editing. It’s months and months of deliberation and concentration, all focused on inciting a reaction.

But how do I react? I’m at a loss. I feel energized and filled with purpose. But what actions do I take?

The life of a reader is frustrating. To say the least.