My brain wanders as I read a novel.
I follow the fireworks triggered by the ideas
spread through its pages. Sparks
as abundant as the icing
on a delicious cake.
My eyes bulldoze the words across neatly stacked lines.
I build the mental puzzle of a world inhabited
by characters on the move.
Where what happens next matters desperately.
Chasing the storyline is like running up
seven steep flights of stairs
not stopping to catch my breath.
Although eager to arrive at the ending,
I dislike the forced rush.
I put down the story, take a bath, and close my eyes,
searching for quietude. Some details of the plot
are escaping, like the rubber ducks engulfed in the steam.
Then conflicting needs arise.
Not wanting to take a prolonged break,
not willing to start over,
picking up another story to begin a new ride.
It is like driving a long stretch
on a fast lane of a German highway.
Afterwards, I am happy to leave the car behind.