Rereading Stories

My fingers trace over the gold-embossed spines of the books’ leather cases, catching bits of dust as they go. Title after title, lined up in rows on the shelves of the ivory-painted bookcase that’s stood against the celery green wall of my bedroom since my childhood. My eyes catch the title that spawned my affection for collecting beautiful books: Black Beauty. I remember when I found it in the collectable classics section of Barnes and Noble, its big gold lettering catching my eye, and its watercolor painted cover drawing me in. I bought that book, and since that day I’ve made it a lifelong goal to collect beautiful books so that one day I can have my very own library, with a ladder that spins around the room like in Beauty and the Beast. I try to pick one, a new story into which to delve, but it’s proving to be much harder than anticipated. I love these stories before me, yet none of them are exciting me. I suddenly realize that rereading a book never brings me as much thrill as reading a new story, one that I haven’t discovered the ending to yet. It takes me three times as long to read the book, because nothing is keeping me motivated. Then it strikes me. How much more dull and uninspiring would my own life story be if I knew how it was going to end? I spend so many of my days frustrated that I don’t understand what’s being done in my life… angry that I am a character, and not the author. But, isn’t there something exciting about a story whose end you don’t know? I mean, if I really think about it, would I even want to know how my life was going to go if I could? I think something intrinsic to the enjoyment of life would be lost if I knew why things are going the way they are. Sure, it’s scary not knowing. Yes, there are days when I yell at God for the way things are turning out. But if I can trust the Author, I can trust the story. And if I can trust the story, why not enjoy reading it for the first time… after all, rereading never has quite the same effect.