Finished The Fault in Our Stars, and I have thoughts.

I am not happy I read that book. I didn’t get a thing out of it, it left me feeling sad and desolate. Lately I have had no stomach for sad things, being too unexplainably sad about everything in general, even things that aren’t very sad, and what ground I’ve managed to gain on the never ending quest for emotionally stability has been set back considerably by this book. It was almost masochistic of me to read it, as I knew it would affect me this way from the start. But out of loyalty to the author read it I must. It was beautifully written, endlessly quotable, and heart-wrenching, and if I had read it even a couple of months ago I’d have announced my eternal love for it, but in reality the instant I finished it I threw it away from me like it was charged with electrical currents. It’s probably naive of me to only want happy endings from the things I read and watch because it’s unrealistic but if I am indulging in a work of fiction it’s because I’m trying to escape reality. Eventually I will rise out of this puddle of lethargy and melancholy that I’m presently struggling with, and I’ll be able to handle sad things again without being weighed down by them, and even love them for being sad, but for now I’m going to put as much distance as I can between myself and that book by watching a series of happy things, and I’ll self-indulgently eat chocolate, which I’m still convinced will eventually cure all human sadness.