I’m standing here outside the library having given a cigarette to a woman in need, teaching her that if she pops it she’ll make it menthal, shamed by my reaction to the notice taped on the doorway. It read, “The Internet is currently unavailable.” I have a computer at my command at home – a phone that does it all – and yet I seemingly desire to visit the library for my notes. Today was meant for writing, so that’s still going to happen. Discipline is key here.
I’ve noticed that National Novel Writing Month is coming. Discipline is key here.
The shame comes from my passing through the aisles of literature, never opening a book, never guiding my mood by their wonderful auras, and always sitting before a computer, furthest from a warm body.
Wondering how the faculty of this magical place must feel at the sight of a disheveled young man choosing to turn away after reading their careful warning puts me at odds with my literary self. It’s not for them to telepathically scan my mind, joyously deciphering that I’m not actually listening to the latest Fetty Wap, but a podcast recorded by Book Fight! titled, “Michael Crichton, Jurassic Park.” Am I congratulating myself for this? Can I be more pretentious?
A woman’s voice announced through the intercom that the library will be closing in thirty minutes.
There are errands to run. I entered the library to use the restroom without even a curious mingling beside a book. Robotically, strained and mechanically of instinct, I lit up another smoke as I exited the building. I don’t even want one. I think that I’ll pick up a snack or two and maybe something for dinner.
Searching for brain food in hopes that this wont be all I’ve written by the time I have to pick up Sarah from work. I’ve said it here, so I must dutifully respect my intentions with follow through. Word is bond.
Outside the library some kids are skateboarding, enjoying each other’s company and a man is asleep atop a picnic bench. It’s a beautiful day.