A Room Full of Books

You step  in through the door, leaving your footwear outside (because this is your place of worship; not the temple you sometimes visit to keep your mum happy) and along with it, you also happen to leave behind the cluster inside your mind; the politics of your life, the career decisions, the incessantly buzzing question of, ‘where am I and where am I going?’

You’re in a parallel universe. The huge windows on the opposite wall let in a stream of moonlight and you don’t bother to switch on the lights; not yet anyway. You take a deep breath and cast your eyes around the room full of books. You’re not sure where to begin and you are a little afraid to begin touching so you content yourself by reading the covers, looking at the titles and the author names.

You don’t care what the books are about yet; the only thing you know in that moment is that you’re in a room that breathes for its own, even when you’re not in it. You know in that moment, that you can read anything. The thirst for knowledge, for information, for entertainment, for imagination is so compelling that you have to keep your hands away with a lot of self control.

And yet you still stare in silent reverence. Waiting…for you do not know what. Maybe it is because you know how deliciously tempted your heart is and you want it to feel that way for a while. After all, the room is not going to run away on its own. And you have forgotten that there is a world outside that door.

Finally you reach out and flip on the light, a little carelessly. You aren’t aware of what you are doing. You aren’t aware of the presence of life; other than that of the breathing books, each a lung of its own.

And then you plunge in. Will you hear the doorbell? Or the phone? Do you miss anyone? Do you need to eat or drink?

You might as well be dumped on a desert island


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