“Feeling a sense of loss upon finishing a good book."

This was me finishing “House of Leaves”, the best / worst horror novel I’ve ever read. I wouldn’t even call it a horror novel so much as a horror experience. The book actively resists you reading it, like it’s warning you - or challenging you. The book quite literally warns you on the first page that it is “not for you”, before proceeding to simultaneously bore and gaslight you while quietly whittling away your sense of reality in the background.

This book was a goal I set out for myself when I first moved to Jakarta. There’s a popular cafe chain here called Fore, which has a playlist that could only be described as “Music to Disassociate to”. It sounds like generic ambient lo-fi, but just slightly off-key - the uncanny valley of music. I would spend my weekends reading the book there, the unsettling music enhancing the horror experience. I could feel parts of my sanity slowly slipping away as I struggled to read each page.

It was grueling, but I did manage to reach the end of this accursed book, closing it and just staring into the middle space for what felt like forever. I didn’t even know what to make of the book, the ending, or even my own reality at that point. I just put the book back on my shelf where it has sat for over two years untouched.

Every now and then, I think about returning to it. I miss the satisfaction of conquering the book, but not the psychological pain it inflicted. Would I even get the same feelings again? I’m not entirely sure I want to find out. I think it’s one of those experiences you’re forever scared to revisit, because you might discover that, despite what your memories tell you, it wasn’t all that profound in the first place.