In the library
Sometimes, there is no other place to go. The books you have at home have become boring, and you don't want to read any of them, even if some of them are your favourite books. So, you drag yourself out of the house, and make your way down to the library. The only downside? You have to change out of pyjamas.
The library isn't a place many people visit anymore. Why borrow books when you can just download them onto an ereader, or illegally obtain them online? When you walk in, an older woman looks up at you and smiles, before turning back to the books she is sorting.
You find the section you want and scan the shelves. Despite the fact that you don't want to read books you know, books you own, you find yourself looking for them. You look for the books you've read before, the authors you recognise, the covers you're familiar with. Despite coming to find new books, to broaden your horizons and to read something new, you pick up a copy of a book you have read before. You have a copy on your shelf at home. But here, the book seems so much more inviting.
At home, you sit in bed to read, or on the sofa, curled up with a blanket, maybe some pillows, a hot drink. Here, you find yourself sinking into an oversized beanbag, a faded red colour that you don't trust to be clean. By the looks of the chocolate on a nearby child's hands, the mess could easily have already spread.
The beanbag is uncomfortable, and no matter how much you squirm, you can't get comfy, but you don't want to go home. Why bother going through the effort of checking a book out and having to remember when to bring it back? Why deal with a deadline to read it by and panic about finding the time to read it before returning it when you could simply read it here?
A little child falls over, and you pretend not to be watching as they screw up their face and burst into tears. They didn't seem to be hurt at all, but simply wanting the fuss of their mother, picking them up and shushing them, kissing it better. In the end, you're not sure who's being louder, the child who has since stopped crying, or the mother who is still shushing and kissing, offering and opening sweets. The mother's phone rings and the child wanders off again as she answers it, a lollipop in their hand, ready to stick sweets to more things.
You spend more time peering over the top of the book than actually reading it. You've read it before anyway, several times. There was no point in coming, you never found a new book to read, you simply spent the whole time people watching. Watching the mother and child, the old lady sorting books, the family that just walked through the door, two older children running for the beanbags...
You get out of the way in time, and place the book back on the shelf. The library is small, and the loud chatter of the children immediately fills the building, making it impossible to read. You can return home and pick the book off your own shelf, pick up where you left off, but you know you won't. There's something different about reading in a library that makes every book seem somewhat more special.
Part nine, we're almost at ten now!
I ran out of ideas for this series very quickly, so I don't think I'll go past ten. It'll be nice to start a new series, even though I haven't figured out what that might be yet...
That's all I have for now, but don't leave! Check out some of my other posts!
Okay...
Bye!
No comments:
Post a Comment