futurebird's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A few will be loved. I want people to love what I write. But there isn't much chance of that happening. It's so clear when you are surrounded by failures. I'm at the carnegie library. I've come here to do some reading. I can't take the book out because I have fines and no money, so I have to stay here. I don't mind. The carnegie is one of the best kept secrets in pittsburgh. I like to go deep into the stacks where the floors are made of thick green-frosted glass. I find one of the wooden window seats. There's no sound just the hum of the heaters and the footsteps now and then. Not too often. Even now. It's 8:30. Prime time for libraries. But, even now, there's no one walking around that much. From the window seat I can see a dingy little courtyard and the windows of the offices of the paleontologists and the archivists and the scientists and the other people who work with dead things. It seems that most of them work late. I guess they must love their work. The smell of rotting paper all around me is overwhelming. I can almost hear the pages turning yellow. Every word is printed to be read but many-- most will go unread, or read once and then tossed aside. A few will be loved. If I might in my life put down at least a couple candidates for that. Why do I want to be a dead whisper on a page? (or a screen!) Would my time be better served huffing up some of this cold air we have and looking at the star-freckled night sky that's here too soon these days? In the end it seems people don't really care about all these words that much. The living things are elsewhere. 00:41:13 - 2000-12-19 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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