Merde Happens

cous'

You know that feeling when you're reading a book. When you scoured through pages and pages, and you can't help but to gradually fall in love with this particular character, and at a particular point, when you feel like you've known that character forever and you had went through a lot of things together with him and you just want to hold him close to you so that he will never ever leave you,

the author decided to kill him.

That kills me. Really.

And it kills me even more when the author decided to torture you by writing even more chapters after the character's death, and you have to sit through it as you scanned through meaningless words, the absence of your favorite character is so vivid it hurts you even more, but you don't want to stop reading, because your human nature tells you to be curious, to try to find out what happen next, what happen after the death, and that's what you do. To read it until the end.

And there was never a time, when you regret that decision that you have made. To trust the author to go on with the story, because you know that he will lead you to a destination that you don't even know of, but you know that you will arrive, sooner or later, and you'll be either sad or happy, but you'll be satisfied anyway.

The week is finally over and I'm making sure that the next 48 hours of my life would not include homeworks, teachers, assignments, or trips to electronic stores in it, and instead I'll be spending my time by devouring every book that I can get my hands on while listening to meaningless French music all day long.

Kill me. My heart still belongs to Paris.