The librarian

Whoever says that my little town is boring knows nothing. From the hospital to the cathedral, towards Amesbury, towards Downton, the background is always enriched with hundreds of pairs of eyes. Glittering eyes, red eyes, marbles surrounded by dark circles, pieces of glass sunken in burning rivers of acid, drops of dark watercolour hidden behind a hat. Connected to a perfect bundle of entropy, in a chaos of words and sounds, they all murmur a soft story, a story illegible for the common, uninitiated soul.

My hands swirling as the wind moves between my fingers, my pores wide open as I try to catch and borrow everyone’s novels. From the most solid feeling to the most brittle memory, each and every one of them have a very gentle and shimmering core, like an innocent flame that doesn’t know how to defend itself, that doesn’t burn anyone else apart from itself. Until it deforms itself into a surreal shape, until it destroys itself.

You may not remember me, but you remember us colliding. Your weight stolen, your shadow weeping, your breathing soothing, your heart beats hurting no more. I am only a mere collector of quotes, paragraphs of your life that I write in my notebook – paragraphs from the books of the lives that I read with thirst and I hold onto tightly, afraid to let the wind shatter them to dust, the dust of forgiveness.

I laugh through the sound of turning pages; I cry with you and let my saltiness dissolve the words that shouldn’t be known by anyone else apart from us.

I open my hands to the sky and let the stories fly away from me, let them go; while my tears fall and carve the reminiscences on my skin: the scent of your love, the warmth of your happiness, the acidity of your despair, the sharpness of your sadness, the numbness of your loneliness.

I am not a writer, but I am a reader; my life has been turned into paper planes that have burned on their way towards the Sun. Now my blood has your ink instead of iron, my lungs have dust instead of oxygen. I am a storyteller and humanity is my library, I sing your poems until their weight crushes my joints, until you can breathe again, until you are able to dominate your shadow, and not vice versa any more.

I am you, I am her; I am everyone.

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