A reply to this: http://mastuvu.typepad.com/monuments/2005/03/dust.html
Home is where the heart is, they say. I never left home. Maybe my heart is stacked somewhere on the worn wooden shelves of the public library, where I work. Neatly classified under "medical".
I was born here and when my time will end, I know it will be here. I don’t care much about travelling or moving to a big city, like so many young people do now. I prefer a quiet life of candlelight evenings and walks along the coastline. After a storm you can find treasures there. Silver spoons with imprints of a foreign ship’s name, bones of seagulls tied up in seaweed looking like precious jewellery. And once in a while a bottle. Intact.
When I long for something more, I have my books. They are my children, my lovers, my companions on cold nights. Sometimes I read them tenderly, my fingers caressing the spine while my eyes gaze into an endless new world. Sometimes I devour them urgently, driven by a hopeless need, scratching at the words like an animal. I have read books hot with lust and illicit passion. Books that were scarred and scorched, almost igniting themselves with their content. And soothing books telling tales of romantic love so corny and fake they almost melted in my hands.
The books in the library. Every day, I talk to them. I mend them, I stamp dates onto their cards. I classify them and cherish them when they’ve been neglected.
But some time ago, while I was walking along the beach, I found the most precious book of all. I keep it at home. I’ve never ever shown it to anyone.