The Library Redux

Hello my friends, I write to you once more after a long absence (for which I wholeheartedly apologise). It is a terrible time of year for me, this end of semester rush. I drown beneath a sea of schoolwork, beneath papers of esotera and ephemera.

To that end, I am ensconced, once hatefully more, within a library.

God have mercy on my soul.

I can feel it sapping at my will, even now. The wood-paneled walls, a favourite, comforting piece of architectural folly of mine, inhale every cheery breath I have. Books glare down from shelves, no longer the happy friends of old. They have become complicit with their resting place. Left too long on shelves, languishing alone in the half-dark. They are now collaborators, akin to the dreadful shushers known to all and sundry as ‘librarians.’

This place is like a prison, a prison where free-time goes to die.

I have upgraded as well, from the university library to the national one. It seemed a fitting choice. The windows at the former hinted too much at freedom, of the world outside. Now I am in a place that lacks windows, that lacks high ceilings. It is a warren for the studious and the productive.

I feel unwelcome, like some jack-come-lately who will be proven to be false at any moment.

I expect the feeling of eyes glaring daggers, of unsheathed pens with which to mark my falseness.

And so I must return to my moral philosophies, to the dull and dreary ramblings of dull and dreary theorists. I must don again the cloak of productivity within which I drone away, slogging and trudging through mires most grueling.

Until next time my friends.


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