A girl -- or, seemingly so; she is in, all reality, a "he" -- wanders the countless rows of books thick with winter coats of dust, prepared for the frosty days when the cold seeps through the windows and under the doors. He's a small thing, very small, wearing a white cotton dress colored at the bottom with water-color flowers of blood and golden sunshine and deep violet night skies; his slight little shoulders and long legs and arms are visible to show that his skin is the color of snow. As he moves about the dusty, countless rows, his curious eyes the color of a peacock's feathers, shimmering with vibrant blues and greens and speckled with flecks of gold, flick about. He sways his small hips as he walks with bouncy, lively steps, his head of long, wavy, pure white hair swinging around those shoulders of very nearly the same hue. A thin finger with unpainted nails trails along the spines as he goes. One can imagine he has a lovely angel's voice, high and clear and stronger than expected. He does, of course, and itches to hum a tune as he walks. This library's owner, however, does not permit such things, and the song plays only in his head:
Mütter standen bald am Strom
Und weinen eine Flut
Auf die Felder durch die Leiche
Stieg das Leid in alle Teiche
Schwarze Fahnen auf der Stadt
Alle Ratten fett und satt
Die Brummen giftig allerort
Und die Menschen soviel fort....
And then, the most peculiar thing.... The boy called Eve steps into a shadow, one cast as product from the lights overhead and the mass and space which the heavy shelves produce, and suddenly, there is no longer an Eve. The shadows, seemingly swirling together to form a mass of their own, spit out a new shape: that of a black cat....
I am nothing but a shadow, really...a shadow, of course, with bright green eyes. The library consists of, as one might imagine, shelves upon shelves of dusty books all crammed together in a dimly-lit space; the lights flicker and buzz above my pointed ears as I slink between the rows on quiet feet, my cat eyes flicking this way and that. Sometimes I might come across another being who, of course, wouldn't recognize me. I am a cat at the moment, one black as obsidian who moves with graceful, fluid, and silent movements. One girl tried to reach down and pet me. I hissed, of course, bared my teeth and arched my back. She quickly scurried away.
My friends the books sit in all corners of this building, gathering thick coats of dust to protect themselves against the cold soon to frost the windows. Silently, they just lie there, waiting for the day their winter coat will be blown off and wiped away with the thin fingers of some curious reader like myself. They wait for the day their cover will cracked and the secrets they hold inside will be spilled to just one mind.... Today, I possess that breath and those thin fingers and that curious mind. In an instant, the black cat becomes Adam, dressed a black cloak that nearly swallows him, eyeliner rimming his same-hued cat-green eyes. He is me, of course. I continue my wandering the rows of shelves who have dusty coats of their very own. On my way around, I pass a girl, one I don't recognize nor acknowledge, but answer her question: Yes, I do believe we are allowed to touch these books. I certainly do, anyway, and select a tome here, pluck a tome there, and snatch another from its resting place. With the books in my skinny arms, heavy for me, I quickly find a table to dump them down on, do, and sit. I do like libraries. They're quiet, darker, mysterious...much like myself.
Or, who I perceive to be myself....
I am a master of masks.
posted 9 months ago. ( permalink )