If I could live in a library I would. And not one of these new fangled libraries with their computers everywhere and teenagers busy chatting in the corner. I would live in a musty smelling brick castle of a library with shelves from floor to ceiling and ladders to reach the upper most shelves. There would be panes of glass warped from time and brass desk lamps with green glass shades. There would be overstuffed brown leather arm chairs in the corner and oriental rugs in front of marble fireplaces. And it would smell of old books and there would be lots of friendly faced patrons reading quietly, engrossed in the wonder. I would want my library to be situated near a stream with weeping willows along the bank so I could bring my treasures out to read by the water.
There are not enough hours in the day. There are too many things to do and places to go. And there are too many books that I want to read. I haven’t had time to read this summer and I want to very badly. Perhaps this will be a good self-care goal: to read. It took so long for me to get the hang of reading that I feel my life will be spent catching up on all of the reading I missed earlier.
Today I will start a book. It will be grand.