Sleep is Temporary, Books are Forever; A Saga

I turn my bedside lamp on and pick up my book. I’ll just read until I get tired. I’m not yet lying to myself. In fact, I’m proud I didn’t turn on the TV.

But this book is better than expected —didn’t it only get a 3.9 on Goodreads? Did those reviewers even make it past the third chapter?

The rising action turns to cliffhangers; I’m hanging on for dear life. This book may not have blue light, but it lit something up in me. Dopamine turns to adrenaline, and time becomes an illusion.

It’s fine. I can still survive until tomorrow; it’s only 11:37 —just one more chapter.

I read furiously, fastidiously avoiding eye contact with the glowing numbers in the corner. When I finally succumb and look, it can’t be. The reverse countdown of possible sleep hours begins. It’s bleak no matter the formula.

I read a line that makes me laugh and sigh all at once. Humor and heart? I didn’t come this far just to come this far. I can be the hero in my own story.

I’m all in, this book is getting finished dawn be darned.

The inevitable sunrise creeps through the blinds like an accusation just as I close the book. It was perfect. It was worth it.

I’m a shell of a person, but my bones buzz with the aftermath of a beautiful plot, characters who are my besties now.

Coffee becomes my lifeline, my personality, my raison d'être.

I vow never to do that again.

Then walk by a store. Is that book winking at me… or am I experiencing sleep exhaustion? Either way, I’m buying it.