Walking through the library on a Tuesday afternoon is oddly interesting.
Many pathways, usually unintentional, form along your journey to find a certain work. These pathways are tight, stiff columns that force you to walk with your hands pressed firmly along your side. They are teaching me something-perhaps to keep to myself-despite the generalized, preconceived invitation of knowledge.
The air is also, caustic. It is a stale yellow, like stained pages of a very used edition of 1984.
I like the library. It is careful and considered, yet overlooked by so many. Seen as redundant and filled with useless antiquity.
It is a reminder that things exist. They breathe on old, challenged breath, but still a breath nonetheless.
YOU ARE READING
Silverfish
PoetryA compilation of written thoughts, poems, and short stories composed by myself
