The Library

I love the smell of the library, like fresh ancient magic that warms the mind into all sorts of wonderment. What better place is there for this explorer? The large hall entrance easily a portal to other reality levels, receives the winds with an impeccable temperature of compassion. The tapestries I see through a doorway always opened, tempt me. I have long past the temptress tests and therefore will not be distracted from this quest. I am here by authority of a dream fragment, a book given to me titled,"Growing a Writers Life". There are straight staircases and I went up one once to view my private room of paintings into my personal future. There are spiraling staircases that make a kind of music as you step. I suspect the harmonics in the play using these staircases come from the luscious discoveries taking place within the sanctuaries provided to individuals along the spiral path. I have never reached the top of this particular stair case and some how that desire seems stupid and nonsensical.

My excitement grows as I walk the steps, this time as if piano keys in rhythm of a glow of from a room not unlike a bears den. I step in and there's a smell of oak and freshness is here. To my left a shimmer and she steps through to sit at the long table in the middle of this cozy space. Books line the walls and the light is not so bright as to hurt my new eyes seeing. She barely looks at me, " I wish you would return here more often. I have this book on loan and could use your help with it." She roles out a marvelous sheet of material to make a map for our further adventures. She takes out a quill and my eyes go big. I know that quill, it is ours.

I am hoping she can not feel the happiness and sadness all rolled up together I am feeling at the sight of my adolescent self. She wears the cotton dress that catches and weaves patterns from the rippling of color on the timeless paths. She wears sandals and speaks so easily the words of her thoughts. Somewhere along the development of me I lost this skills.  Thinking to myself, "I will have to teach her patience with me". She turns a look my way and flashes a fragment of a dream into my mind. A geometry of a living flower lit with color and hues of pulsing light drop petals. Each petal a variation of geometry, partnership symbols as portals into adventures and endeavors we have already completed. We both break out into laughter that only old friends are privy to. I sit the book I came with down on the long table. She smiles our minds together and we open the book she shimmered in with. We read.  Our hands are one now. We read and let the quill and mapping material do their magic as we draw symbols into an unfolding path. I smile and pocket all this experience as a key to our way home.

Waking into my body in bed, not unlike the quill, I type this dream reality into story.