I’m addicted. My drug keeps me up at
night. I sometimes take it instead of doing what I am supposed to. I buy as
much of it as I can afford. Once I pick it up, I can’t put it down.
My drug isn’t dealt in the alleys or
by underhanded people in love with money. My drug makes me smarter and keeps me
entertained. My drug isn’t unhealthy and it won’t kill me. My drug is reading.
I pick up a book and it sucks me in.
It isn’t just the character’s adventure, but it becomes my own. I can
experience it all, but from the safety of my room.
I have fought off evil governments or
solved a multitude of crimes. I have discovered new abilities and used them to
my enjoyment and survival. I have fallen in love. I’ve make mistakes and fixed
them. I’ve learned a lesson or two or four or a million.
I can become someone else. I can be
the adventurer that will jump headlong into trouble or the shy girl who
discovers a way to make her mark in the world. I can be the silly and clumsy
one who always speaks before thinking or the calculating villain who
manipulates every situation. I can be anyone I want to.
Books give me stories I dive into, but
they are all so beautiful. Conflicts are resolved with the turning of pages.
Fun and fantasy become reality within those lines. Imagination runs rampant and
I can’t get enough.
I’m addicted to reading. Give me a
book and I will be satisfied for hours.
