How is it that literature can work on me like a drug?

Not necessarily a bad drug, mind you, but drug-like nonetheless.

What is it about a book that could enthrall me for three days straight so all I think about is finishing?

What magical power does it possess that it could keep me up late and make me get up at 5:45 on my day off???

I sometimes am ashamed to admit, but I love this drug.

I love the way it's deep words and ideas can hold me aloof from reality just enough that I get a bird's eye view--like being on laughing gas and feeling somewhat out of body.

I love the way a beautifully woven novel soothes and invigorates me like the caffeine in my chai.

Mind you, I have overdosed once or twice.

One time I really over-did it--I consumed one 500 page novel whole. One summer day. Gone. Leaving me reeling and starved for more beautiful words and people.

I try not to do that, and couldn't even if I wanted to, with a job and other responsibilities.

But so often now, I come across stories that do not have that power and it leaves me said.

"Where is your magic little book? Why don't your words hold power the way others do?"

Searching can be difficult, but always worth it because I do love this one recreational drug.

When I get through with one variation, as I did this morning, it leaves me feeling productive, but unsatisfied, craving another and another.

Time to find a new one to rival the beauty of what I just inhaled.

Oh, how do you never cease to do this to me?