I live in a house of endless rooms and all the walls of these countless spaces are filled with book cases
There is no time and I live
in a house of endless rooms
and all the walls of these
countless spaces are filled
with book cases jam packed
with volumes written by
writers from every world
country, every gender and
age, about subject matter
covering each and every
concern (both real and
imagined) ever conceived
by humanity about itself and
the universe in which we
dwell. And of course, a life
span extensive enough to
allow me the ability to read
each and every one of them,
including each day’s new,
freshly published volumes.
This desire trumps any and
all inclinations to travel the
globe and its great oceans
or even the wish to ride in
complex space contraptions
deep into our universe in
search of answers to the
riddles of existence itself.
No, I’d prefer the interior
life, an endless string of
centuries seated in my big
comfy chair by the windows,
a gorgeous volume held
gingerly in my hands.
Thusly situated, I’d read on
until night crept in to lead
me off to sleep. But, then,
I’d wake only seconds later,
or so it seemed, when, in
actuality, decades might
have passed. Regardless,
I’d always arise refreshed
next morning, grab s cup
of steaming hot coffee
(made by who knows who)
and resume reading where
I’d left off the night before.
And so, my journey would
continue, unencumbered by
everything except the delicate
sounds of ever turning pages.
