So here we are. Around stories and pages of words, here, where I can be alone with my guilty pleasures and be who I am. I don't need to explain myself to anyone. Library. The only sitting place in it, surrounded by books.That's my favourite spot. The window being the only thing lighting the little corridors between the shelves has deep red heavy curtains that are never closed. I open the rarely used doors, they crack as to say hello again, and I quickly close them again, thinking someone would see me and demolish my secret place. That is my fear. The books are lit up by the dim light and the counter is dusty. The librarian hardly ever comes due to health issues. I always send her flowers on her birthday. May 27th. She is one of the nicest, and few at that, people I know. With her motherly smile and warm atmosphere she would definitely charm anyone. Her knowledge was given to me. Every book she held, I did too. We used to talk for hours after class ended and those are my favourite memories. I saw her less and less since last year. One day I saw a note on the freshly cleaned counter that has told me about her illness. I glanced the counter and empty chair behind it one more time and walked further between the maze of shelves. It's a big library with 2 floors of only books. I stopped at the first window and looked at the long antique vase with red climbing roses blooming inside it. It was a delightful sight. The red flowers seemed bright red when the sun hit them and it made me happier. Just something about them. Maybe the smell or maybe the whole process of waiting for them to bloom. I cupped my hand and poured some water in it. I slowly watered them making sure to get every single one. Altogether I had 8 pots of different species of the unusual house plants. My father loves having his own herbs and so he taught me everything he knows about them. I guess there's where my love for flowers grew from.
Ah, the second half of my first year. I walked over to the next floor. The spiral like stairs echoed as my shoes hit the metal on them. I'm not the type that re-reads books. I believe that you can experience a story once, and only remember the feelings and lessons from it. Why would you have to reread something if you already know every character and plot? Is it because you'd want to go back to that world? But there's so many books you could've read in that time.
I would say I am a good student. I do have straight A's. And I love learning. The way you don't forget what you read, and obviously I like literature. But that's not the point of the story.
If you look up from the first floor you can see that the second floor is open in the middle. You cross a bridge and you're in the history section. Although the library isn't mine it feels like I belong there. Just me, by myself. I walk down the stairs again, sliding my hands over the handrail, left my hands cold and dusty. I brushed it away against my school uniforms skirt while walking towards my school bag. I left it leaning against the old but high counter, the fairly used fake leather bag, from my grandmother, that I wouldn't replace for anything. I learned to appreciate small things in my life. It's not about the "big" things or the bigger picture. It's about colours you see, the sun light escaping through the leaves, the bus you take to school everyday and that stubborn kid on the seat that always craves for something sweet, the graffiti on the facades you walk by and all of the people rushing by you creating the breeze that brushes against your neck and cheeks. The way you write, the way you hold your favourite possession, the way you think about a loved one. Don't things like that make you happy? You probably don't think about that.
Don't judge a book by it's cover. It's such a used saying even I'm getting sick of repeating it. But say it one last time. And remember the meaning forever. Hold onto it.
I put the bag over my shoulder and take it through the same path to my desk once again. Opening the buckle on the side and zip in the front, I take out the books and my small pencil case with 2 initials in the corner of the flap. I go over them, as I always do, with my cold fingers, making them even more faded. I pull out the Victorian looking padded chair and calmly sit down looking at the panda pen my childhood friend gave me as a parting present. He lives in Liverpool now, far away from me. We write emails to eachother because I don't have any social media. There's no need for that really.
I started reading my math book when I heard the familiar creek of the door and chills ran through my spine as I felt my sweat of being petrified forming on my forehead and my palms were as hot as ever. I froze.
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Welcome back to reality. I hope you feel productive. As of now, this particular moment, you know the beginning of the story. Take in the information you just read and take a deep breath. I'll see you again.
-Nina
