“Why do I worry?” That was the question the man asked himself each time he found himself like this. From all logical frames of reference it didn’t make sense. Here, though, he felt at peace. Here he felt safe.
It was strange how this one new thing could alter the perspective from which he looked at everything. Going in he had approached it in almost a flippant manner. Sure, he had understood that this was a big deal, but he couldn’t have guessed how essential this would become to him.
Standing in the doorway staring, his lip quirked upwards in a light smile. His eyes roamed over the room once more, perhaps subconsciously again checking for threats, maybe ninjas, before again coming to rest on his beloved.
Visible through the window was only the night’s impenetrable curtain. The only light in the room came from behind the man and from the steady red glow of a digital clock reading three.
Insomnia really wasn’t a bad thing. People say that sleep is where a restless soul finds peace, but his peace abounded much more in this room. Slowly he made his way across the room, savoring the cool touch of the tiles beneath his bare feet, but his focus wasn’t there.
Finally making it to the object of his desire, he ran his hand down the simple, unadorned wood of the bookcase. He grabbed the his book, and held it in a two-handed grasp for a few moments. Then laughing, he cracked it open, took a good whiff of that papery scent and departed to the room with the comfy chair.
When you’re in the throes of love kindled by a book by Patrick Rothfuss, insomnia isn’t a bad thing.