The “Mysteries” sign swings slightly as it hangs from the ceiling on clear filament. The people hurry past my table - it’s almost closing time. A girl stops to show her father the book she’s chosen to check out and I resist the urge to ask her to let me know what she thinks of it: it’s a Fitzgerald work that I’ve been hoping to read.
A lady in a dark dress stacks books on the shelf in front of me - the romance section, but my spot wasn’t picked for that; I think romance novels are cheesy. I’m not against romance in real life, I just can’t make myself see the writing as believable. But maybe that’s the point.
A man’s slightly raspy voice comes over the P.A. system, announcing that the library will close in twenty minutes. A couple at a table near mine has been here for a couple hours. They’ve been laughing and talking comfortably and it seems like their time flew by.
I wonder if these people know I’m observing them; of course, if they walked by and happened to glance down at my scrawling, graphite-littered notebook paper, they could certainly find out.
I’m about to pack up and leave when suddenly a man sits down with a young boy with a stack of books about divorce. He proceeds to go through them, compassionately, and all at once I’m reminded of everything and nothing at all; that these things aren’t just stories, or ghosts. They actually happen, these human experiences, and sometimes - in fact, oftentimes - I miss them.
As I walk out I’m amazed at things; and as I travel farther away, that list continues to grow. I’m amazed at timing, and city lights, and humans, and the ability of something unjoyful to give me complete and utter inspiration.
A lady in a dark dress stacks books on the shelf in front of me - the romance section, but my spot wasn’t picked for that; I think romance novels are cheesy. I’m not against romance in real life, I just can’t make myself see the writing as believable. But maybe that’s the point.
A man’s slightly raspy voice comes over the P.A. system, announcing that the library will close in twenty minutes. A couple at a table near mine has been here for a couple hours. They’ve been laughing and talking comfortably and it seems like their time flew by.
I wonder if these people know I’m observing them; of course, if they walked by and happened to glance down at my scrawling, graphite-littered notebook paper, they could certainly find out.
I’m about to pack up and leave when suddenly a man sits down with a young boy with a stack of books about divorce. He proceeds to go through them, compassionately, and all at once I’m reminded of everything and nothing at all; that these things aren’t just stories, or ghosts. They actually happen, these human experiences, and sometimes - in fact, oftentimes - I miss them.
As I walk out I’m amazed at things; and as I travel farther away, that list continues to grow. I’m amazed at timing, and city lights, and humans, and the ability of something unjoyful to give me complete and utter inspiration.
Post a Comment
Be the first to comment on this article!