The Library

In the corner a box full of dusty forgotten books lies lifeless.  Left to be sorted another day they continue to wait for a moment that never seems to come.  Shelves and shelves of epics, novellas, tall tales, and autobiographies line the walls of this grand room.  A sturdy wooden table sits in the middle of the room, accompanied by a chair whose cushions slouch and sink down into the evergreen abyss.  Commanding a view of the most recent work, the chair is faced towards the shelves that fill with new material as classics make their way off to the side.

Despite its size, the room doesn’t seem to echo and a sense of peace blankets the area.  A lone figure perches upon a ladder, searching for a book high up in the stacks.  Her glasses slide down her nose and she pauses to readjust them before continuing to slide her fingers along the well-worn spines.  Finding the story that had tried to escape, she grabs the book and makes her way down the ladder.  As she steps towards the table her fingers begin to buzz with excitement.  She plunks herself into the chair, places the book on the table and turns to the first page.  Devouring the story, she is once again immersed in the scents, tastes, textures, sounds, and emotions she felt when she created the story.  She is overwhelmed with a desire to pull out and revisit all the other related stories, even the ones in the box in the corner.  Alas the story ends and the sounds and scents disappear as quickly as they came.  She returns the book to the shelf and returns to the table.  Pulling out her trusty pen she begins to write the newest tale.  She prefers to record everything as it happens in the moment.  She must get every detail just right so she can keep an accurate account of everything that happens.  As time moves on and she relives older stories, she makes edits and adds embellishment without changing the essence.  She places more books in the dusty box in the corner and furiously records new chapters.

She never leaves.  Day in, day out she is always working to make sure her records are accurate and up to date.  Sometimes it takes her a little longer to find all the volumes in the story, but she’ll always try her best.  You see, as the memory keeper she has quite a demanding job.  She pulls out older anecdotes while she composes new ones and as I close the door to let her continue her work, I step back out of my mind and return to the present moment.  I continue to experience life and she continues to record.

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