My Diabolical Plot for all Libraries (and another untitled poem)

Sitting amongst a plethora of things so lovely as books, one would think that I would be perfectly content and happy and at peace. I am not. In fact, I’m sick. I believe I may be sick aside from the books, but ever since I sat down amongst them, I’ve been restless and achy and a pain has made itself known in the pit of my stomach. I sit in a library, an entire building full of books, and none of them are real, true books. It makes me want to weep for all of the people that must come here and read these worthless pages seeking something to fill their time, or even deeper things. It is all complete trash, every page, and there are millions of them.

I’ve thought multiple times in the past hour or so of burning the whole thing to the ground. I imagined myself retrieving the few books worth saving from the sickening shelves and pouring kerosene over all the rest, then running outside to hit it with a flamethrower, watching in pleasure as the whole thing burned like that Roman library so long ago. It sounds twisted and villainous, I know, but truly it would be a heroic act – ridding the world of one worthless, mangled library at a time. I’d rebuild them, of course, and fill them with real wooden bookshelves- the kind with rolling ladders attached. And on the shelves would be real books full of words that push back the darkness. And in the corners would be large, old chairs that swallowed you whole in the most delightful manner as you devoured the book in your hands. And there would be fire places and lighting other than florescent and it would smell like a library – and the books would have worn covers – all how it should be. And coffee. There would be coffee and tea, both in giant mugs that fit snugly in one’s right hand so that the left one is free for turning pages, still there is always a warm beverage seconds away from slipping down one’s throat, creating a toasty glow that in its mere existence invokes a sigh of contentment. That is the way a library should be, and the place in which I now sit is no library indeed.  


(another) Untitled Poem

Night is so dark, so cliche,
It closes each day,
Brings to each home quiet rest,
And we take much for-granted,
That it will come falling
In place of the sun brightly set.
And most come to it heavy,
And some come to it ready
To shut down their minds and be still,
But I come to it waking,
with wide-eyed excitement,
For night’s when my mind roars to life
and the creatures inside it,
can no longer hide,
they wake up, roam about, have parades.
Then my pen takes to paper,
like a boat to the water,
on the sea of my soul we do sail,
and sometimes it’s pleasant,
and sometimes tempestuous,
and most times I’m sick o’re the edge,
but none of this matters,
for life ends up splattered
all over each page of this girl.
So, night is adventure,
not mundane,
not empty,
not slow,
and not to be greeted
with anything less
than high sails,
high hopes,
and strong pen.


One thought on “My Diabolical Plot for all Libraries (and another untitled poem)

  1. I’ve never looked at a library that way before. I love our libraries, especially the domed one. I love the quiet atmosphere and the colorful array of books, and how you can just pick one off the shelf and explore. But to have libraries in the way you describe would be to superb. To have such quality, and character.

    We should build these kinds of libraries.

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