Novels fill each corner, cover each crevice, and blanket the walls from floor to ceiling. The books seem to spill over the edges, leaving no room for air between covers resting on the rusting shelves. The novels squeezed onto shelves stand upright brilliantly, even after the colorful hues of their bindings faded from wear into dull covers. The woven spine holding together each page is starting to tear at the seams, allowing frays to hang out gently. I run my index finger along a row of books, feeling the curvature of each, the ridges imbedded in them from pages turned, reading the Braille of their broken spines.
The ceiling, already sagging low, slowly inches closer to my head, weighed down with unspoken thoughts, words yearning to escape in a whisper from between chapped lips, yet confined to a yellow page in type. An old, somewhat broken brass chandelier flickers its light in the corner, temporarily changing each spine color and highlighting the specks of dust in the heavy air around me. The odor of strong coffee, cheap liquor, and cigarettes clings to the dust remaining on shelves, on untouched books. I can smell the loneliness of the people who have stood in the very spot I stand. I can feel their struggles. The solitude amongst readers, each searching for comfort in novels, seems to weave its way in between books, and into the dusty air.
The old mahogany floorboards creak under my footsteps, audibly mirroring my motion as I walk over to a large, deep blue velvet armchair. Although tired from age, it remains ornate and oddly beautiful. My feet trudge slowly to avoid the creak of the floor as I make my way to the lounge. I sink into the impression made by the bodies before me, the wear indicating the position in which I should sit. All of the individuals from eras long ago, all having sat in this chair, are now subconsciously dictating to me how I must sit; moreover, a rule passed down within generations, a silent understanding. And I, a product of society, follow into their prints without contemplation.
The room remains empty, and yet it seemed overwhelmingly crowded, as if people of all walks of life stood by my side. Alone, I find refuge from the outside world. Creaks in the floor mix with the street noises outside, honks, screeches, a chaotic mix of humans in a morally struggling society. I realize, as I never have before that I much prefer the company of an intelligently written novel, than of any person. And as all beautiful irony goes, the convergence of all life forms occurs excessively more in the books surrounding me than it does in nature.
And how intellect seems to dance around the room! It forms its own entity, something almost tangible, filling the air I breathed in. I can hear the thoughts of the authors; I can feel the lure of the books. It overwhelms me with an indescribable sense of comfort, of purpose. As the novels engulf me, the harmlessness of home, the warmth of childhood innocence, rushes within my veins. With every pulse of my heart, I can feel it dispersing throughout my body. I can feel it taking hostage my lingering loneliness, filling the emptiness with thoughts, ideas, and knowledge.