Book shelves against doors
The sky is a pale, slate blue, the sun shines brightly, flares of rainbow light catch the corners of a school child's eyes, and today, you have lost yet again.
That door you have stubbornly wedged your size 8 1/2 foot in has disregarded your existence and has shut, a gust of wind filled with self-pity and anger; or, at least, as much contempt as a gust of wind could muster. There's a saying that goes "When one door closes, another opens". You know that's full of nonsense, because your life's hallway is an unlit corridor, and every shadow is a monster. The barest light came from that door. Faintly glowing, leading you to a better place, leading you to happiness and safety. When it closed, the light is swallowed up by the unforgiving steel door. You are consumed. Everything around you is a lurking demon now, and you are so vulnerable and helpless and nothing can save you now and things are closing around you and, and, and-
But you can't sulk about it. Wallow in your misery for a little bit, but no one is there to pick you up. Those doors have closed too. Sorry, good bye, move on. Better luck sometime later.
There are unsorted books in the shelves. Get to it. Because, no matter what happens, the library is a hectic constant. No matter what crisis you're going through, A Cornelia Funke from shelf 6 will always be snuggling with the Michael Morpurgos on the display ledges, Charlie Bone III has been booted out of his brother's I, II, and CO's club, left hanging with sort of buddy Percy Jackson, and book series numbers will always dance with the wrong partners. 9 and 3, 17 and 10, 8 and 19.
It feels good to put things back in order. Realizing that something is misplaced, and knowing exactly where to put it back. That power that makes you think that you're better than everyone. But, you know to share it. You hesitantly allow the others to organize, and you loose that little blossom, that tiny spark that made you feel unique. In return, you get halfhearted thanks, and more books to organize, because in your eyes, things are still messy. And of course, they tell you that it's fine, if their are extra copies of the books, they can stay in different locations, different age groups. Not a shred of sense.
You hide behind the scenes and help out everyone, closing your eyes to your corridor, because it isn't any darker when you're still stumbling blindly forward either way. Or backwards, or in circles. Don't give any time to yourself, feed the selfish and help the whiny with their problems, because, even though it hurts, even though you want someone to tend to you like you tend to others, you know that you're just as bad as every single one of them.
You don't try to find your dreams again, because every little mistake you made (ones that others would be quickly forgiven for) turns into a raging mess of a situation, and you can only be broken so many times before casts and time can't cut it anymore.
The childish, curiosity has long gone been extinguished, and every iota of hope, every glimmer of life smothered by closed doors.
That door you have stubbornly wedged your size 8 1/2 foot in has disregarded your existence and has shut, a gust of wind filled with self-pity and anger; or, at least, as much contempt as a gust of wind could muster. There's a saying that goes "When one door closes, another opens". You know that's full of nonsense, because your life's hallway is an unlit corridor, and every shadow is a monster. The barest light came from that door. Faintly glowing, leading you to a better place, leading you to happiness and safety. When it closed, the light is swallowed up by the unforgiving steel door. You are consumed. Everything around you is a lurking demon now, and you are so vulnerable and helpless and nothing can save you now and things are closing around you and, and, and-
But you can't sulk about it. Wallow in your misery for a little bit, but no one is there to pick you up. Those doors have closed too. Sorry, good bye, move on. Better luck sometime later.
There are unsorted books in the shelves. Get to it. Because, no matter what happens, the library is a hectic constant. No matter what crisis you're going through, A Cornelia Funke from shelf 6 will always be snuggling with the Michael Morpurgos on the display ledges, Charlie Bone III has been booted out of his brother's I, II, and CO's club, left hanging with sort of buddy Percy Jackson, and book series numbers will always dance with the wrong partners. 9 and 3, 17 and 10, 8 and 19.
It feels good to put things back in order. Realizing that something is misplaced, and knowing exactly where to put it back. That power that makes you think that you're better than everyone. But, you know to share it. You hesitantly allow the others to organize, and you loose that little blossom, that tiny spark that made you feel unique. In return, you get halfhearted thanks, and more books to organize, because in your eyes, things are still messy. And of course, they tell you that it's fine, if their are extra copies of the books, they can stay in different locations, different age groups. Not a shred of sense.
You hide behind the scenes and help out everyone, closing your eyes to your corridor, because it isn't any darker when you're still stumbling blindly forward either way. Or backwards, or in circles. Don't give any time to yourself, feed the selfish and help the whiny with their problems, because, even though it hurts, even though you want someone to tend to you like you tend to others, you know that you're just as bad as every single one of them.
You don't try to find your dreams again, because every little mistake you made (ones that others would be quickly forgiven for) turns into a raging mess of a situation, and you can only be broken so many times before casts and time can't cut it anymore.
The childish, curiosity has long gone been extinguished, and every iota of hope, every glimmer of life smothered by closed doors.