You know those mornings when you wake up too early – when you were in the midst of a dream that you didn’t want to end – when you toss and turn for the next 9 minutes until the snoozed alarm goes off again trying to recover the dream because it was so real, so much more right than having to get up in the dark and dress for another day at work?  But, try what you will, you eventually are forced to face the reality you don’t want and leave the dream behind?

That’s how I feel after finishing a really good book, after a story has drawn me in to the point where I measure my days by the number of hours until I can read more.  And sometimes, just like with the dream, I’m left feeling a little depressed and a little hollow because I’d come to be so fully invested in a world or characters I loved but which, when the last pages close, die in a way.  And where the mourning for a lost dream may last a few minutes, the mourning for the lost book-world scales appropriately – at least for a day or two while I walk around numbly and try to re-instill meaning into what feels like mundanity.

Does anyone else have this problem?