reading room
For years I wallowed in the stagnancy of my reading room. My books weren’t new enough to have the new book smell, and they weren’t old enough to have the old book smell. The only excitement, as fleeting as it was, came when I would light a fire, or when it would rain hard and the drops would pound the roof as the wind shook the trees. Countless nights I spent pacing the creaky floor, devising plans to cure the world of its ills, or wishing I was in a meadow somewhere, my arms held out to feel the breeze. “I only care about my truthfulness” I would always say. If this was my fate, then I would live it, just as the blackbirds that would often graze in the yard, or the hawks that would circle above them. After all, I believed there must be something bigger than I. Were my books, made of paper as they were, the forest I could not see for the trees? Surely there was some wisdom within them or me that could put my mind at ease? But alas, it was not to be.
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2020 - 2024