Flipping Pages

I used to have a weakness when it came to reading books. This was years ago, when I was still a kid. You see, the problem was, I'd get so drawn in to a story that I'd get anxious about where things would go, how they would end. Does Character X survive? Do so-and-so and what's-his-face get together? Will I feel happy, or sad? Satisfied or unresolved? The tension was more than I was willing to bear.

So, to deal with it, I flipped through the pages, reading a line here, a short paragraph there, and too frequently that final page. Ultimately--and I recognized this as well then as now--I ended disappointing myself. Either way the story ended, I missed out on the thrill of the build up to a happily ever after or the heartbreak of a sorrowful end.

At least I knew that there was an end.

And I was prepared for it.

I find myself wanting desperately to flip ahead in the pages of my life, to discover if I must prepare myself for heartbreak. It's a good thing, I suppose, that I can't. I don't know if I would be able to deal with the answers.