There are
rows and rows of books as far as I can see. Economics, business and marketing
are behind me, probably staring at my head as I type. In front of me lie
shelves full of social science, ethnicity, migration and who knows what else. The
librarian does or the person who walks by every now and then, arranging and
rearranging books in these shelves. It’s hard to believe that this person knows
the location of every book on this floor, or even the entire library. A
remarkable, rather envious skill.
If a
library could speak, it would have such wonderful things to say. But it waits
to be read. Every now and then someone comes by with the capacity and
motivation to absorb everything it has give. Otherwise the library just sits
there for years, holds all that spectacular, often dark and mysterious knowledge within
in itself.
Every now
and then it watches a lost soul wander into its alleys and find itself by just
looking at a part of one of the numerous shelves that wait to enlighten. It
must feel great when some one comes back to the same shelf looking for more.
It’s a busy
place, the library, bustling with students in the day time. More of them during
exam time. As the night descends it becomes the solace of a few. Those who stay
behind with it, because its peace embraces their lonely souls. The smell of
books, and the silence of concentration inspires them to open up their minds
and absorb the knowledge that drifts in its corridors.
Then there
are those who have no where else to be. They find their little corner and think
of it as their home. Outside they feel lost, isolated. Inside they have the
company of thousands of books. Some books they look at, and some books look at
the back of their head as they type their first ever love note to a new friend
in a strange town.
