Just a Book

This is for the 3 a.m. novel readers
Who know—who share—my pain, my plight
This is for those special kind of tortured souls
Who more than rationalize pretending
That time does not exist.
This is for those people who, like me,
Are compelled by some intrinsic force
Beyond our comprehension
To hold back the ebb and flow of reality and tangibility
Just to do something so simple as reading a book.
But it's more than just reading a book—
It's finishing it:
We know the fear—the thrill—
The as of yet untouched pain
Of sleepless nights
And abstinence from accomplishment
Because deep inside we know—
We know that when we pick up that book,
We can never put it down.
We try to stay away;
We tell ourselves we won't check books out from the library
Or buy them in bulk (or even in pairs) from used book stores;
We tell ourselves we'll buckle down,
And leave those worlds behind
Because we tell ourselves
That this is the world that is real—
That this is the world that needs me.
But inevitably a book appears,
A manifestation of our darkest dreams
And most tantalizing nightmares,
Found precisely because we were trying to avoid it.
And with trembling hands
And fearful, salivating mind
We stare at it,
And we know that if we pick it up,
We could never put it down.
And yet despite the blazing, whirling world around us,
As fast and bright and compelling as it burns,
With a limited and lowering supply of fuel,
We know that when we see that book,
We can't not pick it up.
And we know that if we pick it up,
We can never put if down.