Reeling - just a little. Just quietly, on the the inside.
Having just devoured The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami, I'm detached from reality and adrift in a strange place. It's a place I only ever visit when I finish a very good book. I wouldn't say it's awful, but neither is it entirely pleasant. It's vague and lonely, and the phrases and impressions that struck chords sink in and seem to change my DNA.
I don't like the term 'head space', but I'm in a weird one. Do you ever feel this way? As though the book breathes through you even after the words are done?
Ernest Hemingway said 'There is no friend as loyal as a book', and as an inveterate book hound I'd agree, but with this caveat: This book-friend, this loyal pal, may also take your open heart and squash it like a ripe fruit.
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