Literary Sickness

I immerse myself too much into books.
All of a sudden my dreams are filled with assassinations,
riches, new puppies, the sea. Of hiding in brambles for four hours-
four hours of a dream. And I creep about the house at night
alert and terrified, I become the character.
I feel every word that I read.
Every book changes me at my core, adds
yet another notch of awareness. Every good one.
I am hooked with the barbs of good literature,
not letting go until I finish a book
sleep is forgotten and the house suffers.
It is almost an illness. I take it out of the house with me,
to bed, to the bath. My eyes ache but I can’t
stop reading. My arms and neck twist awkwardly
but I don’t notice until I wake in the morning.
However, the moment when you realise
you’re close to the end. The agony of wanting to know
but wanting it to last longer. True addiction.
Nothing on earth is better
than well written fiction.

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