Die at the Library
Blog :The Incredible Adventures of Nocturne Noire in the Massively Populated Blog World
Date: 8/16/2012 11:35:53 AM
So, there was once a time when I used to be six feet under (5’ 3” if you are the sort to nitpick) in the most reviled corner of the library – Self Help. People trudged along to die there, or hoping to pick up what is left of their wilting life.
You pick up a book from there, not a person. No, that sort of thing do not happen in libraries. People who have their noses buried in books are cynics who have traded their ability to perceive shiny things for the curse of sight. You want to pick up a cynic? No really, do you have a death wish?
Some sorrows do not die in a jug of wine, they swim, swell, bloat and jeer.
They refuse to be split into manageable portions that can be distributed,
evenly or unevenly to friends or to strangers.
Such sorrows must be serenaded, seduced and sung lullabies to till they slip into fitful slumber, so you get a moments respite till they wake and start shrieking again.
Loud they are so fucking loud.
I take them to my favorite despicable corner of the library to bury them temporarily.
They make me a deal, come lie with us, bury yourself, what choice do I have?
Read us a poem, they say, or tell us about Whys, your favorite Whys.
Yes, my Whys, through which I hope to seek answers which don’t exist.
Even Why-tinted glasses cannot correct myopia.
Why can’t even Whys tell you anything? Because there are no answers, that’s why.
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