The Library
I stand before two sets of double doors,
twins of warm mahogany,
barriers against the cold
and the cacophony within my mind,
the Chaos created by their plaques,
brass with black lettering,
identical but for their silent announcements
engraved deeply in Copperplate Gothic Bold:
“CHILDREN”
“ADULTS”.
Doors leading to the Past,
to a world of sunshine
illuminating the vibrant shelves
and their colorful books—
bright reds and greens and blues and yellows and oranges,
chaotic,
clashing,
searing the eyes of everyone
older than twelve.
A world of young hands reaching,
grasping,
pulling out books,
opening, touching pictures, reading
of Happiness and Sadness,
of Good and Bad,
of Valiant Heroes and Dastardly Villains,
categories made as clear
as black and white.
Doors leading to the Future,
to a world of mottled browns and grays,
a world of dim light flickering
across hardwood floors,
irregular smudges appearing
and disappearing
and changing shape
as the maples outside shift position against the clear glass,
jockeying for a glimpse
of a world shrouded in mystery,
a world that cannot be neatly boxed
into Black and White,
a world at once amorphous yet structured,
welcome yet full of pain,
a world whose contours
I have only just begun to explore,
a world from which those who enter can see,
but cannot touch,
the World of Light and Simplicity.
I stand directly between the Doors,
equidistant from them,
faces of Janus beckoning,
telling me to choose,
Choose that they may tell me
their tale,
their tale of my Past,
or of my Future.
The librarian looks at me strangely,
pressing me to make my choice soon,
or not at all.
I walk briskly to the Future,
leaving behind the Past,
not daring to look back.