In this cozy library, I’m surrounded by many seemingly minute things.
As I walk inside I’m hit with the familiar waft of old decayed books.
It suffocates and soothes me, like a warm heavy blanket.
I make my way to the dimly lit corner and settle down in my favorite chipped wooden chair.
An old lady’s stifled cough bounce against the walls.
A guy a few tables over slams on his computer with such rage fumes emit from his head.
I see a girl nibbling on her snack while quickly reading through a big beat-up book.
Her fingers flipped furiously through the pages.
The pages sound gritty and tough like worn sandpaper.
I fix my attention to a guy spread out on the couch, his legs propped up on the table.
He looks way too comfortable.
His eyelids flutter as he struggles to keep his head up as if it weighed a thousand pounds.
I look around and see shelves and shelves of books.
I see titles from the greats and my stomach flutters.
Something about being in a room of books truly excites me like nothing else.
Maybe it’s from being in such close proximity to pages upon pages of words,
words strung together in such a magical way they’ve been immortalized by others for such beauty.
It seems this beauty is lost on others though,
no one else here is nearly as excited as I am to be here.
I, however, never felt more at home.
This is the place I belong.