While reading one of the short-story collections, I was moved with one story a lot. It made me laugh, it made me smile, and it made me feel amazing. By the end of it though, I felt so bad I literally hated the world. I didn’t hate the world in real; I was just not in the world. I was in the story. After that, the next couple of stories I read but hardly registered.
It took time; ultimately I got over the feeling. That chapter was where I lived a life. But frankly, that chapter is just a part of an overall book. It’s not even the last chapter.
Sometimes in the midst of life, some phase makes us believe that this is life, and this is how we want it to go on. Like in a story, we plan how it’ll end. In the end, we don’t know how it’ll go, so all the attempts at going ahead of the word you’re reading are futile, any association more than the current moment is dangerous.
Sometimes, the previous story and the next have no relation at all. In life, focus can only be on the current word because it’s pretty wide. If you try to take whole of it into picture, you can’t do well for yourself.