My library
I glance down to my makeshift library. Looking upon the stacks of biographies and volumes of history. The arts and crafts and fiction sky high novels. Truly have not settled down in a while to read any of those in a few years. So the idea that I hold of needing this "library" is what?
The tender bits of my past I cling to? They hold novels I have worn down well as those prior to me have. They hold the many flowers I have pressed between pages and the scraps of paper I have jotted notes down upon. Or even listed this spectacular quote that just floods back delightful memories of laughter. Sincere moments.
Here I sit in my wingback chair, legs curled up and coffee settled on carpet nearby. Laptop seated upon blue blanket as I type away about those delightful bound leaflets. So simple I may seem in the aspect of holding onto these pieces. Hugo's works in French, Tennyson's life explain, Frost's wanderings, Paine's sermons, stories of women strong in times, variations of bibles in years stemming from 1790s to 2013, crafts of basket weaving, quirky books on being left handed and various little life stories. All alongside of the stacked notebooks of poetry I have written since childhood. To see the gradual changes and though the circles of life resurface. Remarkable to know if I had to walk away from all these, I can.
Yet what importance do they have for me? You may ask. I find a bit of comfort in rekindling my mind with the words. Ever so often I want to feel the characters as though they included me. To feel the purpose of my life, even if it was imaginary. Yet still the library I have doesn't clarify who I am today. They are soft memories I like to have resurface here and there.
Sounds odd but I do so enjoy picking up Hugo and trying to remind myself what the words mean, exercise my mind and kind of relearn the language. There are also the volumes of loose leaf paper in folders and stacked high, with just one gush of wind they will be a feathered shower inside my room. Truly I read over them on occasion and think, what a naive child I was, a hopeless romantic with darkness surrounding. Indeed it is hard some days to look back. Yet I see the changes.
So my library may mean nothing to you but it speaks a few layers of me.
The tender bits of my past I cling to? They hold novels I have worn down well as those prior to me have. They hold the many flowers I have pressed between pages and the scraps of paper I have jotted notes down upon. Or even listed this spectacular quote that just floods back delightful memories of laughter. Sincere moments.
Here I sit in my wingback chair, legs curled up and coffee settled on carpet nearby. Laptop seated upon blue blanket as I type away about those delightful bound leaflets. So simple I may seem in the aspect of holding onto these pieces. Hugo's works in French, Tennyson's life explain, Frost's wanderings, Paine's sermons, stories of women strong in times, variations of bibles in years stemming from 1790s to 2013, crafts of basket weaving, quirky books on being left handed and various little life stories. All alongside of the stacked notebooks of poetry I have written since childhood. To see the gradual changes and though the circles of life resurface. Remarkable to know if I had to walk away from all these, I can.
Yet what importance do they have for me? You may ask. I find a bit of comfort in rekindling my mind with the words. Ever so often I want to feel the characters as though they included me. To feel the purpose of my life, even if it was imaginary. Yet still the library I have doesn't clarify who I am today. They are soft memories I like to have resurface here and there.
Sounds odd but I do so enjoy picking up Hugo and trying to remind myself what the words mean, exercise my mind and kind of relearn the language. There are also the volumes of loose leaf paper in folders and stacked high, with just one gush of wind they will be a feathered shower inside my room. Truly I read over them on occasion and think, what a naive child I was, a hopeless romantic with darkness surrounding. Indeed it is hard some days to look back. Yet I see the changes.
So my library may mean nothing to you but it speaks a few layers of me.
Comments
Post a Comment