How unpromising must a book become
before you decide never to pick it up again?

Or does the need to finish the story keep you bound
to what you know could be a loss of precious time?

What exactly would that binding be? Guilt? Need for closure?
The fear of missing out on an unexpectedly good ending?

What does it take to finally tear yourself away?
How does a book feel if it suddenly gets dropped?

Some say not to stay where you’re clearly not satisfied
especially when there are so many other books to read

but how can I avoid repeating a mistake
if I don’t know what mistake I made in the first place?

Maybe it’s because metaphors are inherently flawed.
People are more complex than the finality of ink on a page.

A book read now and the same book read later
might somehow be two completely different books

or maybe I’m just a different reader, wiser,
better able to connect with concepts once beyond me.

There must be more to following your heart

than simply going where the dopamine is

which isn’t to say there aren’t times
when the dopamine knows exactly what it’s writing about.

Thus the limbo of setting a book down
and wondering what the point is.

I can’t change the words I’ve read or where they’ve led me
but is it not I who in my own story holds the pen?

Is the next page not blank, patiently waiting for my direction?
An advancement of the plot? A step toward a climax?

A line gets written then erased, written then erased again–
every day a new way to word the same disappointments.

How unpromising must a book become
before I decide never to pick it up again?