Updated: Jun 4, 2020
All my life, I have loved libraries, or at least rooms filled with books.
That sentiment has never been in doubt, or has it?
The early years full of wonder with the sound of my mother’s glorious, hopeful storytelling in the musty, Bull Street public cathedral of words.
The high school years wherein the edifice defied my own self-lamentation, by heralding my name amongst the cerebral brilliance on the magnetic-lettered, High Honor Roll display board.
I happened upon the glass case hanging on the library’s back wall at lunchtime, with no warning, self-awareness or witnesses--
Blinking against the reality known to all, but me.
My college years wherein I rarely sought intellectual sanctuary amongst the stacks where Hillary found so much inspiration.
The cold, soullessness of Amos Tuck’s repository of knowledge held no allure, for I longed for the musty, romanticism of old rooms.
I have come back to the nascent storytelling, again nurtured in a library;
Mine today is brightly sun-filled, with huge panes of uber-modern, San Franciscan, glass,
Befitting the capitol of technology, which is its home and co-conspirator.
Remember, the library knew my power for truth-telling even when I did not.
The minimalist crispness no longer offends, for it is not the aesthetic of the room, but what mental flights and feats it can foster.
No, not Ivy League, but something better.
A sanctuary of my own making, where the walls are incidental tools to achieve the destination, I alone will define.
The structure neither keeps me in, or others out,
But relates them all, one to another, to cultivate the voice not yet extinguished.