I’m in the library and I’m writing.
The pitter patter of the rain drumming throughout is distracting and I have to place my headphones in my ears in order to ignore it. Not that I’m playing any music as that would be equally distracting. You see, I had the tendency to analyse a song’s lyrics and or instrumental abilities quite thoroughly. No, I’m using my headphones as something to dampen the sound. And it does a good job until the rain intensifies and becomes an all disastrous force of nature against the windows of the library.
It’s a good thing I’m inside and the rain is out.
I evacuate my headphones from my ears as there is no longer a need for them. As I do so people begin to crawl into the library, bringing their chatter and whispers with them.
I guess I won’t be able to get as much work as I need to done today. No matter, that is why I have a book in my bag, just in case of small emergencies similar to this one.
I stare dimly at my copy of Juno and Juliet and smile. The cover, torn and ripped, stares unashamedly back at me. The light blue of the cover has been washed away of even more of it’s colour until it is has become a stale, powdery white. I wish I could say that it is in this state because it has been following me around for years like a much loved blanket, but that would be a lie. Despite loving it with a deep passion, the rips on the cover were not made by me, but made by a younger version of what I am now. A disastrous tyrant who somehow believed that in order to show your love for something it must show signs of wear. So, in a quick passion to do, this said tyrant fabricated a few of her own to show just how much she loved the novel.
Stupid. That was stupid.
Because now I’m left with a book that I’m not quite sure how to look after. I don’t want to tape it back together because I’m worried that it would destroy the already thinning cover. And I don’t want to protect it with a rain cover because there is still a part of me that believes that the scruffiness – for lack of a better word – shows just how much I love the book.
Stupid. Just stupid.
But, what can I say?
I guess I’m just a hopeless romantic.