Okay, so this is technically an essay, but we'll overlook that. I thought it was kinda neat, but that's just me. I'm sure that if I look this over in a few months, I'll think "what the h-e-double-hockey-sticks was I thinking?" Anyway, I hope you enjoy my descriptive 'essay of place.' I also figured that since everyone here likes to read to some extent, they'd see the value in a library the way I do. One more thing: when I say "librarian lullaby" I mean a library lullaby as if Library were a country, not a librarian the person. Library lullaby just sounds stupid. Hope I didn't confuse you!


A Librarian Lullaby

The song of a thousand stories whispers through the sacred air of the library, leaden with silent words and compelling the listeners to sing along. The perfume of a thousand worlds drifts along the shelves, blending with the essence of books, old and new, and creates an environment of safety and warmth. The invisible light of a thousand havens subtly glows throughout the room. Reverence hangs in the air like Christmas lights upon a tree. This is how it has been for centuries and this is how it shall be forevermore.

An intangible presence wanders the aisles. She hears. She smells. She sees. A saint of all saints, a patron of readers, she guards her treasures with the nurturing instincts of a mother. She sings with her children for a moment. Then, like an instant of eternity forgotten, she is gone.

A more sinister presence enters the room. Two more follow. The comforting air suddenly quiets, and the light diminishes. Nothing can lessen the scent emanating from the paper-bound doorways into other worlds, but the three evils permeate the room with their own heavy musk, sticky sweet and cold.

They talk. Their harsh words defile the sanctity of the place. The sudden noises and metallic scrapes as they move break the fragile peace, intruding upon a silence of a thousand years. Ticks and taps as they shuffle their belongings suck in the harmony wrought after so many years and blow it out the clear panes of a nearby window. It is gone.

When they leave, the library is left to rebuild the delicate shell of calm on its own. The stories come out of hiding slowly, as a rabbit creeps from its hole after a hawk passes overhead. A tenuous silence ensues.

The lullaby resumes.