August 4, 2012

He held in his hands a book ancient as the dark. It had the smell of must and decay, and yet miraculously it held together in one piece. Though this book had been neglected for untold number of years, it was once well worn; the brown hard leather cover dented on the corners, darkened and dipped from the grip of fingers, and broken in the spine; the yellow pages frayed and bent over. There was a bookmark there, as fragile as the pages which he feared to open, turn, and look…

When he was younger one of the places he would hide out when he was neglecting his studies was the library. He wasn’t there to learn; he was hiding: from teachers, from parents, from teenage drama, from life. Once he was in, it was easy to dip from row to row, and if someone looked suspicious, it was simply a matter of opening up a random book and thumbing through, acting like he was looking for something.

But the truth is, he was looking for something: for truth, for purpose, for need; he was looking for someone to rescue him; rather, for someone he might be called upon to rescue. He was looking for the fulfillment of his soul; the meaning of life. Yet as pain and emotion began to bubble up from his gut and take the form of words in his mind, sometimes those words would escape and hit the books he hid among. Most of the time they would bounce back in a silent cry of desperation, but sometimes they connected and caught words and titles and names and brought back ideas and the start of understanding was with them…

-Peter L Richardson


2 Responses to “beginnings…”

  1. I’m not sure if I fully get what this means (which isn’t necessarily your fault. I’m just dense like that sometimes), but I like it!!

  2. peterrock12 Says:

    thanks, Steph! This one’s more about experience than meaning…

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