The Library
I'm not a creative person.
I've never even considered the idea.
People around me come up with the craziest ideas, and here I sit thinking: I got nothing.
I am nothing.
What is the observer, in the undulating expanse of time, if not nothing?
What else am I if I just wander around these dusty aisles, never adding, never thinking, just absorbing, taking the ideas and trapping them in my void?
What else am I if all I do in my days is wander, just wander, while all the creativity of the world swirls and expands away from me?
I think this, I wonder this, as my eyes move, caressing the endless covers, hungrily searching for the next wonder.
I think, I wonder, as my fingers rub against the grainy pages, smooth against the silk words, and I think, I wonder, as I look all around me and never at me; I think, I wonder.
At the end of the inked words, at the end of the aisle, at the end of it all, at the end of the end.
Did I even matter?
I've never even considered the idea.
People around me come up with the craziest ideas, and here I sit thinking: I got nothing.
I am nothing.
What is the observer, in the undulating expanse of time, if not nothing?
What else am I if I just wander around these dusty aisles, never adding, never thinking, just absorbing, taking the ideas and trapping them in my void?
What else am I if all I do in my days is wander, just wander, while all the creativity of the world swirls and expands away from me?
I think this, I wonder this, as my eyes move, caressing the endless covers, hungrily searching for the next wonder.
I think, I wonder, as my fingers rub against the grainy pages, smooth against the silk words, and I think, I wonder, as I look all around me and never at me; I think, I wonder.
At the end of the inked words, at the end of the aisle, at the end of it all, at the end of the end.
Did I even matter?