I woke to a foggy morning today.
That in itself is not unusual, but the very opaqueness of the fog that greeted me this day was almost Dickensian. My first thought was to stay in bed. But, I knew I could not. I knew that I had to venture out…to where my friends are. I know they will be there to greet me, as they have been daily for the last four(?), five(?)—how many years has it been? The years have, like the Hamilton fog, obscured much. But unlike the fog, that obfuscation has been a blessing, protecting me from the reality of being…of being here.
I woke to a foggy morning today. However, I made my way by bike to work. I chained my bike to the railing outside as is the purpose of the railing. The pragmatism of the railing is disquieting and does nothing, as an embodiment of the town, to dispel the omnipresent depression one feels constantly and inevitably.
But, my friends are here, here to greet me. There they are in rigid lines, smiling at me. They are a colourful cluster, inside and out. The rigidity of the lines belies the riot of colour they present—each so different from the others, each providing an individual ingredient to the banquet of friendship they present. It is a rich and rewarding banquet. It is one, I think, I could not live without.
My friends, my books.
I should not want to live without my books. The Hamilton Public Library where I work, where I cycle to every day from my bedsitter in Claudelands, is an oasis of calm and culture in this town.
No, it is more than that: it is a sanctuary and a portal—through which one may escape this world and journey to lands afar where beasts may be tamed, mountains may be climbed, crimes may be solved, bodices may be ripped, and love may be found.
The Hamilton Public Library is all this…and more.
The Hamilton Public Library is my home, my haven…my liberty.
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