Imagine a planet made up entirely of a library. The biographies are near the equator. The nonfiction section lies in the northern hemisphere, and every other category makes up the spaces in between. This is my place of peace. A world literally made up of stories, of books. A place where the only problem is figuring out what book you’re going to read next.
The library is broken off into levels, into sections. They are separated by cool metal railings and my feet tread upon worn wooden floors. The insistent tapping of my feet becoming a familiar rhythm calming me and putting me at peace. I can look out over the railings and see, as well as hear or really not hear, silent monorails. These soundless rockets of silver bolt left, right, up, down (the sense of gravity a bit off up here) carrying eager passengers to their next destination.
This place is peace. A place where the only sounds you hear are turning pages, shuffling footsteps, and muffled conversations. In the background like white noise is the sound of falling water. It is said that there is a waterfall near the equator, but I haven’t been able to pull myself away from the bookshelves long enough to find out. But I do today. It was completely by accident. I stumble upon a railing that forms itself into a circle. If I look down and into it I see gushing water streaming into a bottomless pit. The sight and sound causes a rush of peace to flow through me like the falling water. My hands gingerly skim the top of the cool railing, and I walk onward.
I travel forward until a surprising smell stops me. Up until this point the only scents I can remember is the smell of old book pages. This smell though, it’s thick and rich and strong. Coffee... but not just coffee, chocolate too, the two swirling around in my nostrils in some sort of weird dance. Curiously, I shift my self in the direction in which it must be coming from, and I’m again stopped in surprise. There are people here, more then I’ve seen in awhile. Or maybe I just haven’t been paying attention. They are all hunched over books, or computers, or notebooks, each of them in their own little world. I smile their presence of calm engraving itself deep into my bones.
And suddenly I’m broken from my watching when someone taps me on the arm. I turn to find a smaller boy. He has dark hair and very green eyes. In his hand he holds a cup and it soon clicks that it must be the coffee. I take it from him and smile. He disappears. I turn my head from either side trying to find where he might have gotten it or where he might have gone, but my eyes come up empty. I inhale its deep scent before I turn and head back into the direction in which I came.
I shuffle on, occasionally sipping the warm contents of the cup in my hand. It has an interesting taste to it. A mix of chocolate, toffee and something else... The thought wonders to the back of my mind when a sign catches my eye. ‘Stories for young and for old’ it reads and I turn into its isle. The dark wooden shelves go from floor to ceiling. If there is a ceiling... I scan the titles and brush my hands along the old and worn bindings. I pluck one off the shelf at random, plop my self on the floor curling my knees to my chest, and set my cup beside me. I crack open its spine and begin to immerse myself into a new world of new possibilities.
There is no fear or insecurities here. There’s just peace, me, and books. The things that sometimes make me happier and more at peace then anything in the real world could ever offer. This imaginary library inside my head is peace.