(no subject)
I have been idle, these past few months, perhaps lulled into complacency by the constant repetition of days; I was ever a creature of routine, having nothing else, marking off the passage of an hour by the task I perform, as if I were but an ornament in a clock, run by gears and pendulums, lacking any sort of motive force of my own. Indeed, I had none, and it seems to pass time here I have settled into a similar sort of groove.
Perhaps on this particular island I am less an ornament in a ticking clock as a sculpture on a sundial, marking the time by the turning of my shadow rather than the rote perambulations of my day. It is, after all, far less strict. If I miss breakfast, I have it late; if my feet wander somewhere I had not intended, I may follow them, and not turn and hurry back to my assigned place, for I have none.
Except today, when I have set myself a place to be, a task of sorts to perform. My library*mdash;for I think of it as mine, now, have come to over the passing months-remains unemptied. I burned some of the works, but found myself unable to so destroy the rarer, more particular works. I would hardly call them worthy, but notable, certainly. I chose not to press them upon the bookshelf, to be swallowed up into whatever peculiar space it draws its volumes from; to do so would be to relinquish all control, to tacitly offering them up to any curious eye, no matter how inappropriate in age or temperament the soul to whom the eye belongs.
No, instead, I have brought my goods and expertise to the market; they say one should contribute to society and this is my singular skill. Perhaps it is about time I should profit off of them, in whatever small way I can. I have acquired a stall, and sit with the great piles of books I have laboriously carried over, and as I wait for a customer or a simple inquiry I write, my gloves carefully set to the side and my left hand supporting my temple as I lean over the desk to do so.
Perhaps on this particular island I am less an ornament in a ticking clock as a sculpture on a sundial, marking the time by the turning of my shadow rather than the rote perambulations of my day. It is, after all, far less strict. If I miss breakfast, I have it late; if my feet wander somewhere I had not intended, I may follow them, and not turn and hurry back to my assigned place, for I have none.
Except today, when I have set myself a place to be, a task of sorts to perform. My library*mdash;for I think of it as mine, now, have come to over the passing months-remains unemptied. I burned some of the works, but found myself unable to so destroy the rarer, more particular works. I would hardly call them worthy, but notable, certainly. I chose not to press them upon the bookshelf, to be swallowed up into whatever peculiar space it draws its volumes from; to do so would be to relinquish all control, to tacitly offering them up to any curious eye, no matter how inappropriate in age or temperament the soul to whom the eye belongs.
No, instead, I have brought my goods and expertise to the market; they say one should contribute to society and this is my singular skill. Perhaps it is about time I should profit off of them, in whatever small way I can. I have acquired a stall, and sit with the great piles of books I have laboriously carried over, and as I wait for a customer or a simple inquiry I write, my gloves carefully set to the side and my left hand supporting my temple as I lean over the desk to do so.