Sitting in the Library

Everything is so still that any noise, even one as quiet as a pencil scribbling on paper, seems to be amplified a hundred times.  Something about this reminds me a winter's day, with books rather than the snow sapping the sound from the air.  In such silent, still surroundings there is almost a comfy feeling, as if the air is a giant blanket.  The smell is subtle, but always present.  The scent of old, crackling paper emanates from the countless bookshelves.  Thumbing through my book, I feel the rough texture of the page, worn out by hundreds of hands.  There are dozens of others sprinkled throughout the library's massive space, but I feel completely alone.  I look at my book. The spine is brittle, barely holding its aged contents together.  The embossed title is juxtaposed against the white sticker below it, denoting the call number.  Inside the book's cover is a small pocket holding dozens of cards, recording the hundreds of past renters over the tome's life. Each signature is fainter than the one before it, as I scan the cards, like memories that fade over time.  I wonder if the previous owners were feeling what I feel.  I picture them alone in the library, searching for any information that will prove useful in the essay to come.  I leave the library and am struck with the contrast in environment.  The sun warms my face, and the absolutely stillness is broken by a slight breeze.  I hear people talking in the distance; it confuses me to suddenly hear so much.  Although I was perfectly at peace in my silent home, I realize how I can take for granted the pleasant breeze, the warm air, the bright colors, and the smell of growing grass outside the confines of the library.