The Comfort of the Library
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I stare in awe at the grandeur of the shelves,
Their ornamental patterns reach towards the sky,
Like the columns of a great house of gods,
And I wonder what gods reside here.

The shelves are as unique as the books which line them,
No two the same, no matter how alike they look at first glance.
It is as if each shelf has a memory of its own,
Each made to perfectly house the seemingly infinite manuscripts which reside there.

The books and tomes cascade from the sky,
Like a waterfall which crashes onto the shelves from the River of Knowledge,
An endless stream which flows from endless places and out of endless times,
The Water of which is comprised of words, and letters, and pictures,
And things which I cannot begin describe, but are no doubt important.

I am conflicted. Should I be comforted?
Content in knowing that after I am gone,
I will live on in this place?
Or perhaps I already do.

Perhaps this has already been written,
Lost amongst the walls of texts which seem to make up the structure of this place
I have asked the Archivists many times to see my works,
But they will not show me, for they find the question silly.

I know that the books which I have yet to write are out there,
Though I cannot hope to find them,
No matter how many times I ask to see them.
Perhaps it is for the best.

My future, if there is such a thing in this place,
Is not a thing to be known by me.
Nor a thing to try and change.
I know that now.

For there is so much else to be discovered in this place.
Even the bindings of the books give windows into worlds so distant from my own.
Skins of animals I will never see cover the pages of books,
Written in characters from languages I will never know,
And by authors who are unaware of their works’ existence inside this vast sea of knowledge.

As I sit down against a towering marble shelf,
I unclasp the casing of a circular book,
And flip through its glass-like pages,
Pouring over its spiraling drawings,
I know to be comforted in this library of wandering souls.

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