Lisey's Story

I just finished reading a book. It wasn't one off my read list… not one I'd picked especially with thought and care, like I usually do. In fact, if ever there was an impulse buy on my book shelf this would probably be it. It simply was there when I did my last order at Amazon and without looking at it or even bothering to look at the description I threw it in with the rest of the lot. I cared so little that I didn't even notice it was the hardback edition I got… usually that's a hard limit for me. I hate hardbacks. Too difficult to take around with me. Too rigid and heavy when curled up in bed with it. And worse, it shows very little sign of personal wear after reading. Just about the only thing that this book DID have in its favour was that it was by one of my favourite writers.

When I got the books home – in record time. I've never received anything so quickly from Amazon before, it ships from England after all – it was my interest in the other, far more carefully chosen books, that seemed absent. This book… this annoying hardback… lay there, as if staring at me, waiting… patiently… knowing I couldn't stay away for long. And I didn't.

I don't know what I expected but a love story so was not it. Actually, I deliberately seem to steer clear of anything resembling that entire genre because it always seem to be so … overdone and too fake to believe in. At some point during the early chapters I think I considered discarding it because of that… but I have come to know that King's world is never what it seems to be… so, I read on. Seeking that thing that lay beneath…

What I found was more than just love. It was the kind of 40-years-down-the-line-still-in-love-despite-everything love. And it was the ability to perceive just how it would feel to be without it after so long… and how to still keep it close even after it was gone. When I lost my brother I just grew cold and distant. Love hurt too much. The emptiness was too big to handle. It was too intrusive on my life. Now, I am beginning to think I have done both him and myself a disservice. Maybe, I got love all wrong. At least the part that deal with accepting just how human it is. How imperfect and flawed and frustrating and yet so impossibly beautiful and amazing it really is.

The irony of finding such lessons on love in the words of someone, famed for writing horror stories isn't lost on me. Odd as it seems, I guess fiction really can be more direct and real than fact.

*smiles quietly* … “Life is Ralph”, as he says… SOWISA…

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Lisey's Story

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