The Library In his corner, only the odd moments pick up the books. Sometimes, he did not trust himself to arrange the shelves, to choose the right books. Instead he might choose a gathering of other people. He could not talk to other people without being properly introduced. Guiding, almost knowing the laws of attraction inevitably departmentalizing, this library of laboratories. That uncomfortable feeling was made to be broken with a wide variety of possibilities sooner or later... which type of story which period, which subject would appeal to him deeply, exhaustedly, along any lines the shelves were full. It did not matter that they lived centuries apart, writing had that common touch. Truths unbased but long established. Indeed, were they really truths? Truths as old as the world itself? Or simply truths with sometime properties. Every man has lived. Every man has recognized that searching hearts paint with ancient imagery, expressing instinctively, reaching, issuing challenges from below. A kinship with the world immersed in lonliness. When fate rains heavy blows on everyone confronted with the same problem, it becomes richness of thinking. Disquieting questions seeking, but finding? Answers? Or row upon row of books. Unhappy life... non-energy... that does not waken him. He reads of full freedom and the implementation thereof, practically smoothing a matter of course. Under contemplation: ... surmising little recourse but strength outside itself, evenly directed by a well disciplined mind, having experienced something within, re-establishing the shorter, more direct way, intimate ground, without previous knowledge, can result in spiritual wrestlings where assurance will not suffice. Tools would not find the way. Great things are done when men jostle in the streets. Insignificant, hurly-burly notions die watching the catharsis truly mount to the man of something, something in stature and stability. He needed love. He needed the bearers of strange burdens. He watched them come through the portals of the books. The burden would be lightened. Sympathy cheered Sorrow, complimenting the compelling need. Another's troubles, not just exciting tokens of anguish and pain, but type-faced Cupids, stirring the loins of his mind. Topics of conversation sat in her lap. while he launched discretions, unmistakeably true, gracefully tangling, dissiduously eating. The mistress referred to in this new doctrine advocated the re-proportion of all things in a flowing way, inordinate to pleasure, inordinate to emotion. Outgrow the years, 0utgrow the willingness to disrecognize the relevant. What kindly philosopher caught his eye, plucked it, planted it? It takes root. It takes a man capable of self-renewal, of pertpetually reviving change within him, Various modes vibrate his fibers, new interests in and of itself. The book closed with a caress. He begins to glimpse the facts. A marble figures its way, waiting for release. A slow painstaking created effort deliberatly and desperately pushing. Pushing, pushing and pushing through out of his mind It's too far ahead! It diminishes the present. She would not ask that much, even of him. Victory might be just one more adjustment perhaps beyond the realm of imprisonment. Freedom follows that realm, bringing books, bringing people together, inside the silence of these four walls. The seclusion of deep thought, appropriate attitudes rise emotionally telling many figures "Come", then often did. The leatherbound Goddess blinked, her unblinking gaze impassably imperturbable, un-understood fully. Invariably, he jumped at her feet, starting to wash them with deliberate strokes of a rusty tongue, hasty licks, in such a foolish way. Her head laughed, a short chuckle as certain pages burned before his very eyes. Why on Earth do I clutter my mind with that now? Please put out the lights all the way! All the way..
Listen to this poem JAMES W JOHNSON