Until Next Time
A Short Story
She was timid. Scared of the enveloping world trying to consume her. So she hid. Inside her home. Inside her work. Inside her imagination. She bypassed opportunity. Relationships. Family gatherings. Because it was too much to bear. A burden she didn’t ask for. One riddled with expectations.
But today her beautiful mind would not cooperate. And she knew. She had to go there. To reinvigorate her soul. To believe that there was more to this place. So she went. And discarded her fears. Trampled on her insecurities. To believe.
She opened the door and she felt it. She smelled it. To others, it was a yearning. A belied sadness. But to her it was different. It was hope. She was wistful. But this place was not. At least not to her. It was history inside of history. Books. Words. Never new. Always touched. Always a part of someone else’s life. Until they weren’t. And now they lay here. Still. But waiting.
She roamed the aisles and touched the spines. She didn’t look for books with her eyes. She felt them. She knew when one spoke to her. She could feel it, deep inside of her.
The story was inconsequential to the feeling. She was enamored with so much. Beyond the feeling, she used her eyes. But not to read the words. Or a preface. To stare at the aesthetic purpose of the paper. This is what spoke to…
