Where I really want to be is the space in between time. A distant world of my own making. A fictional place.

I had spent a lot of time there when I was a child. Where else do you go when reality isn’t safe? When violence chases away what should have been a comforting embrace, and fear reigns supreme? You go away… to the in-between.

I had forgot about this place until the homeless man reminded me.

He led me here – for where else is there to be? and here is where I find myself.

The walls are bookshelves full of books, extending forever into the great unknown. I always thought this place was a dream, forever confined to the hallways of my imagination, and yet here I am.

In this place I have plenty of time… or rather, time lacks the normal fast paced flow, coming almost to a complete standstill. Almost, but not quite.

Realization voiced by no other means but a short sigh escapes my lips.

‘Ah’

The realization is an answer to the question I never ask out loud but is forever on the tip of my tongue. Why? Why am I here?

Every time I want to visit this place it is because something out there doesn’t sit well with something in here. Right now the something out there is my soul mate. We two are tied together for better or for worse. It’s just right now… it’s worse.

Honestly, I don’t even deserve to be in this hallowed place.

Most of these books have never been read and I know it. The towering bookcases extend for miles and miles. As far as my eye can see. Perhaps much like the hole Alice fell through while chasing the white rabbit. Although, come to think of it, she fell down. And by nature of falling down, the fall must at some point come to an end, as it most certainly did for her.

Here I am looking up and up and up. It is quite possible there is no end to this library of books. Perhaps stretching to an infinite place. If infinite is a place that exists.

There are no rules here, but I try to impose the ones I have spent a lifetime accumulating. Rules, after all, make me feel safe.

Kind of…

Here is a space that demands to be accepted as it is, yet here I am demanding it conform to my ideas. The space, however, is having nothing to do with that. Still, it doesn’t stop me from stubbornly trying.

Antsy.

I feel antsy. Out of control. Certainly out of my control, but technically all is in order. Just not the order I preferr. Or maybe I am out of order and don’t belong.

Yes, just as I thought.

Am I an intruder in time and space? Accidentally brought here by an insignificant homeless man who probably stumbled upon it during one of his pointless wanderings. What else does he have to do? And it’s true he has all the time in the world to do it.

The books themselves sense my presence. Not knowing what to make of it. That’s how I feel about it anyway. What do you do with a room full of books that are very much alive and don’t follow rules?

In truth, I was uncomfortable but not enough to want to leave. So, I stayed. Welcome or not. Sitting very still on the floor I closed my eyes and settled into the quiet space, hoping to settle the nerves of the books as well as my own.

Surely, surely I belong because I am…

here.

Eyes closed, I soak in the essence of the room like a tiny sprout soaking in the early spring sun. Even though my eyes are shut, I can see every detail the room has to offer. The oversized leather armchair meant to welcome guests though not so much of a crease in its cushion for lack of use. The end table, equally inviting with a light brown cork coaster waiting patiently for a hot cup of tea to share space. The rug, hand spun rope yarn made of bits of left over fabric, itching for the soft scratch of a kitten’s claws as it stretches out to enjoy a nice afternoon cat nap. An itch that has not, to this day, been scratched.

The room is, after all, as real in my mind as it is out. This room. I had created it. I built it way before I ever decided to walk the narrow hallways of time, before I agreed to lock myself in the confines of space.

The books, countless in number like the sands on the ocean floor or the stars in the night sky, are each one a treasure. Each one requiring a lifetime to write. Unique. And so connected to the next. Intertwined in unimaginable ways. This one referencing that one, that one following this one. Each one an epic masterpiece. Comedies, tragedies, love stories, romance, wars, betrayal, revenge, abuse, mystery, neglect, abandonment, hope… Tales of lives well lived, and not so well lived but at least… lived.

Stories.

These books are people, some not yet born. But forever.

I cherish these books because I know the Author. We two tied together for better or for worse. Desperate to be, for that is all I ever wanted… to experience.

If not for these books I would be forever lonely. Lost in a vast ocean of… what? An endless void?

The room, the books – necessary. The alternative? No Thing.

For this reason, I gently take a book off the shelf and eagerly, willingly, no matter what reality – be it good or bad – I must experience… dive in.