Most intresting piece of furniture
I love my weekly trip to the Kenton County Libray. It's a good place to go hide and be by myself. I never search for books, I let them find me. I walk dewey's maze and grab the one that draws me in more than the others. If it turns out to be a turd, I go find another.
There sitting amongst the volumes is another, a person with whom I have gained a good measure of fascination for. As surely as the sun sets, he could be found in his same place everytime. I don't know his name, or anything about him. It would seem exceptionally rude to approach, considering that he is always deeply involved with whatever he is reading. He only breaks eye contact long wnough to turn the page, and even then you can see him peeking at the new page as it reveals itself. His reading materials were masterpieces, and seemed to correlate with the seasons, or conditions outside. For example on an extremely humid day he would be reading Lord of the Flies. Today it was overcast, he was reading The Government Inspector by Nikolai Gogol.
From a general perspective you would think him as crazy and homeless. His white hair stuck out in every direction, his long white bear untrimmed for what looked like decades. His suit was of a bygone era, tattered and seperating a bit around the lapels. Threadbare at the elbows and cuffs. It was brown like his shoes, which resembled retired baseball mitts. His stature was lean except for a pot belly which put stress on the buttons of his vest. Broad tie, in what looked like a full windsor knot was brown as well. He resembled a depression era door to door salesman.
His face was lined with creases which told of easy laughter, and humble pride. It was broken in like a fine leather chair, and looked like it had been lived in well. His eyes were bright and clear, even behind the scrathced lenses of his wire rimmed glases. There was a definate sharpness and intensity, the likes of which only someone with a scholarly passion could have. I couldn't even imagine how a mind like that would work.
I could imagine his life being fascinating but a tad lonely. To spend so many hours living inside of books, outside life must be less than bearable. I pictured his home being cluttered with dusty books and objects that he has collected over his life. Going to sleep and dreaming about adventures he has enjoyed through his literary pursuit. His old squeeky matress on a steel framed bed, screeching as his old bones tries to find a comfortable position on the old springs.
I think forward to the day that I walk in and he is no longer at his regular place. After all we all die, and with his advanced age I think he will sooner than later. I think when the day comes the feeling of loss will be great. Maybe I will sit in his usual spot every now and then and read one of the literary greats. Keeping his spirit alive, and honoring his memory.
There sitting amongst the volumes is another, a person with whom I have gained a good measure of fascination for. As surely as the sun sets, he could be found in his same place everytime. I don't know his name, or anything about him. It would seem exceptionally rude to approach, considering that he is always deeply involved with whatever he is reading. He only breaks eye contact long wnough to turn the page, and even then you can see him peeking at the new page as it reveals itself. His reading materials were masterpieces, and seemed to correlate with the seasons, or conditions outside. For example on an extremely humid day he would be reading Lord of the Flies. Today it was overcast, he was reading The Government Inspector by Nikolai Gogol.
From a general perspective you would think him as crazy and homeless. His white hair stuck out in every direction, his long white bear untrimmed for what looked like decades. His suit was of a bygone era, tattered and seperating a bit around the lapels. Threadbare at the elbows and cuffs. It was brown like his shoes, which resembled retired baseball mitts. His stature was lean except for a pot belly which put stress on the buttons of his vest. Broad tie, in what looked like a full windsor knot was brown as well. He resembled a depression era door to door salesman.
His face was lined with creases which told of easy laughter, and humble pride. It was broken in like a fine leather chair, and looked like it had been lived in well. His eyes were bright and clear, even behind the scrathced lenses of his wire rimmed glases. There was a definate sharpness and intensity, the likes of which only someone with a scholarly passion could have. I couldn't even imagine how a mind like that would work.
I could imagine his life being fascinating but a tad lonely. To spend so many hours living inside of books, outside life must be less than bearable. I pictured his home being cluttered with dusty books and objects that he has collected over his life. Going to sleep and dreaming about adventures he has enjoyed through his literary pursuit. His old squeeky matress on a steel framed bed, screeching as his old bones tries to find a comfortable position on the old springs.
I think forward to the day that I walk in and he is no longer at his regular place. After all we all die, and with his advanced age I think he will sooner than later. I think when the day comes the feeling of loss will be great. Maybe I will sit in his usual spot every now and then and read one of the literary greats. Keeping his spirit alive, and honoring his memory.