I studied on the fourth floor (the dreaded quiet floor) of the library this evening.  At the top of the stairs, before you turn right to enter the sacred chamber, there is a brick wall hung with floor-to-ceiling bulletin boards.  The boards are tacked with book covers.  You know: the ones librarians have to remove in order to fully plasticize and smudge-proof the humble cloth covers.  I stopped for a minute to stare at the covers longingly.

There was a book about American first ladies, one about pop art, one about traveling in Nepal.  And suddenly I longed for the day when I can leave schoolwork and assigned reading behind and be a reader again.  When I can go home at night, select a book from my shelf, and tuck in.  When I can research any topic on a whim, read trash, use a library card.  When I don’t have to take notes or analyze allegory unless I choose to.  When I know there will be no quiz the next morning.

It will be glorious.

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