It was a bright and sunny day when he first entered the library; he had a name that wasn’t borrowed from the books. His name was given and told of childhood, Thursday pancakes and a mother waiting for a call. He had a notebook in his pocket filled with hope, and names of lovers; he still had choices and not a destiny of borrowed thoughts.
At first he did not notice anything but gradually the books invaded veins, cobwebbed flesh, replaced his dreams. His heartbeats changed to verse and his finges turned to parchment from the pages that he loved. His notebook filled with quotes and he forgot to call his mother. He was a warden of invasive words, he forget the names of previous lovers as he fell in love with ladies; shadows from the poems on the shelves.
One day among the many, he realized that he had aged, that years had passed existing with the books.
“The books are parasites… a my in me, a life and more… but… I am just their grateful host.”
The aged Librarian is library, the books his bone and blood; both lock and key. But in his pocket he still keeps the notebook where (on the inside sleeve) is typed in youthful letters, the name that is his own, his past, his present and the sign that in the future will be carved in stone to mark his grave.
Today a new permanent bartender will give his first prompt for MTB at dVerse and the prompt is to write prose poetry. I thought I would combine this with yet an installment in my aged librarian series. Come join us at 9 PM CET.
March 2, 2017