The drugs called ‘books’

And yet here I am , aching to know the story ahead.
Even a night’s sleep feels a burden on me;
Hating to part my ways from the story, hating to bow down to the needs of my body .
I sleep; but my mind is stuck at the story.
Thinking all possible endings and required twists , I drift off to sleep.
Waking in the middle of the night , there’s this ache again.
The ache of not reading, the ache of not completing the story. The characters ravaging through my brain, wrecking it.
Its like a drug , slowly making my brain itch furiously with the need to read.
Defeated, I pick up the book, dancing my fingers on it’s recycled paper; its gates opening to a welcoming , musty smell.
The brain slowly takes the drug in , contentment fills every nook of my body.
Yes the drug is working;
Few hours later I put the book down ; completed.
A feeling of satisfaction washes over me.
Sacrifice of a good night’s sleep feels worth it at that moment.
Yes I’m a drug addict.
The drug being characters;
The drug being words;
The drug being books.
Somewhere in the world of dread ,
I found my own Ecstasy.