I’m sitting in a corner of a not-my-hometown library, sinking deep into this feeling of hiding.
It’s the introvert’s enchantment. It’s the sinking back into something soft, looking up at the ceiling and thinking, I’m safe. No one can find me.
This library is old. No libraries are old anymore. They smell like new carpet, are sleek, have shimmer. This library is old. It has dull shelves and smells like cigarette smoke.
I love it.
Where I sit, huge mahogany pillars are arching up to the ceiling, completing my feeling of being tucked in. No one will walk this way for hours. I feel like I’ve found a secret attic, and while a thunderstorm rages outside these huge windows, I’m dry.
Curled up with a book. It is the simple things that make you feel like you’ve found a palace.