I sold my dreams for sleep

The bookshelf looks like it’s about to come apart,
Weighed heavy by the ambitions of all the authors and writers who have borrowed words from others.
So I pick up a book from the precarious arrangement,
Wary that my choosing will lead to the bookshelf come tumbling down.
I wait for that loud thud and the consequent cascade of noise.
But it stays put, with no protest.
The book has been on my to-read list for a couple of years now.
It is recommended heavily by friends and the interweb, and accordingly laced with expectation.
I read the first chapter and quickly move on to the second.
Characters are introduced and descriptions are put in place.
Unnecessary weightage is placed on cobwebs of ignored walls in ignored halls.
So I shut the book with disappointment and with sleep at the corner.
And so I shut my eyes, hoping for a dreamless sleep.
I sleep soundly, my torso imitating the ebb and flow of my breath.
I wake up in the morning, momentarily at peace with last night’s dreamless sleep.
And then an odd sense dread fills when I come to realise:
That I sold my dreams for sleep.

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