my heart is a library
where i frequently wander,
through shelves and
shelves and shelves of books, all sorted by author and impact,
made to run my fingers over each row, made to sit and read for hours
in the light of warmly lit lamps and
stained glass panes of every shape and color.
the walls are made of stained hardwood, solid and steady streaked
with deep brown-almost-black, rich mahogany
holding memories and folk tales in its grain.
some aisles between shelves are
familiar, have always been as long as i can remember – the pages in each tome are worn
and the spines are cracked, but each book (old and new) is taken care of as a part of me; my history, my current, my future, my thoughts and my memories of, mostly, family.
these books are one of a kind, and will never fully be destroyed or disappeared, despite what happens to any of the several authors,
despite what stains the pages,
despite what flame burns the wooden frames.
some shelves in this variety have shifted (not gone, but); i’ve forgotten the way to them,
over time, and they are buried to the immeasurable expanses of the library,
to be found one night, cobwebs dusted off and
tears to mar each page.
yet other shelves are forgotten, but not really, as hard as i try – their author is no longer credible, i tell myself,
and yet, it is so hard to abandon the well worn spot in the aisle between shelves. it all hurts worse
when i have no choice but to remove
each book from the shelf because they are no longer correct anymore, hurts more when i must bargain with myself for
which are worth keeping, which soft-leather covers really meant anything
i thought they meant, and aches when
it’s my own writing i have to take down, as well. i tell myself that at least this shelf will fill with other novels, at least it can be full again – unlike some other bookshelves, devoted wholly to
authors that passed too soon, as a hope to immortalize them, to be forever half empty, mixes of their works and empty spaces where ones that could have been would be placed; but i know that the novels in those aisles will always fit right, will be revered, maybe added to
with books of my own, will be passed down, read to youth to preserve a legacy. but these other, certain shelves, the betrayed ones, are filled with books to be
abandoned, cast aside, in a place where others will never, ever completely fill the gaps, because i still can’t quite configure how
these volumes that i looked to for guidance, comfort,
relief, protection, inspiration, joy,
and the words in them (music, art, stories, community)
that did truly give it to me, that i idolized, are the same ones i must now look at with contempt. though i know the change of heart to be valid and well-founded, i can’t bring myself to feel it in any more than
thought, and that feels just heavy.
ah, well.
everyday, i am reminded i know very little of what i’m sure of. and so change is inevitable – and so i can acknowledge it was probably too perfect anyway, and so i will wait for, search for
a replacement, and over time i will stop ending up in these certain aisles that are half-dead, half-empty
for all the wrong reasons and it will no longer
hurt to walk by them. grief, even in its strangest, most undefinable forms, comes and goes. memories come and go, too. i, for now, am a constant, enduring.
in the meantime, there are always other books to read.
Comments
Wow, what a beautiful representation of the brain's tendency toward compartmentalization -- and the heart's ability to muck up that filing system with all its messy emotions, huh? You took the library metaphor all the way, which I delighted in reading. Your last line expressed your wit and strength of character, and had exactly the impact I'm sure you were hoping it'd have.
Thank you so much!! It's always so helpful and really validating to see when someone gets what I was trying to say, and enjoys it <3
This is freaking amazing!! I love how you used the lines and how you spaced the words to add emotion to the story, and the last line caught me off guard, leaving me grinning and wishing for more. I am forever going to think about the winding pathways of memory like this.
I hope you know how much this means to me! I'm so glad it had a lasting impact on you, it's the kind of thing I hope for as a writer <3
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