The smell of dust clung to the room while they sat back and stared at me. I think I almost saw them pout. Or maybe that was just me. With every step, a tiny convolution took shape. One that brought back memories of pages yellow and white. Black symbols afloat, mingling in and out of the yellow. Free of intricacies, without ties and restraint, just by themselves. Also, without meaning. Shelves right up to the ceiling looked down on me as I tried to fit in. I thought I always did.
Not just yet. No, not entirely so. But I tried. I knocked down a pile and let it stay there, for, it said that I was here. Coughing away, I turned back, to come again and pick one up. To un-dust and to cling on to it.
But it’s hardly a book, more of history that touches my hand. The yellowed pages, the musty odour, the dusty aura that pervades it gives me an expression of awe as I try to comprehend what I have felt today.
(Sorry, couldn’t resist adding these lines. The natural instinct of a poet and a love for books can do that to you).
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Thanks for the add-on. And I know it really can.
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