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Description
         The books stared down at her. Her worn favourites were slightly unhappy, those untouched bindings were disappointed. The old Harry Potters on the left leaned against eachother like a group of old friends strolling in the park on a crisp autumn day. All those eighteen Star Trek novels sat like sardines, suffocating happily in the shelf that was too small but she really never got around to moving those books. And the rest of the family was up above, between her eyes and the lamp that had beamed down on her through many midnights and two o' clocks and three o' clocks, the one o' clocks always seeming as ephemeral as that person you thought you saw when you see a coat on a hatstand out of the corner of your eye. That lamp. That silly manmade light that books try to protect you from by letting you dive into those magnificent vistas of dragons and the human mind and the 1920's and the handsome and loyal men.
         They try to dim the light with their slate pages. Slate is opaque, you know. Useful for blocking the light from your eyes. And you can write on it. But it's very easy to break and slate has a rather unpleasant and uncomfortable texture, and you will never be able to truly become one with slate. No matter how many times you put it under your down pillow in the hopes that it will speak to you with candor and acceptance and reassurance. And as much as you hold it up to the light and shield your face, your body will always be in the light, for those pieces of slate are never quite large enough and if they are then you're in a coffin of slate with the world continuing without you outside.
         But she thinks that that silly manmade light is just blocking something greater behind it. Something vast and wonderful, if only she wasn't blinded by that silly manmade light.
         She pulled the trigger. Her forehead fell upon that Ibsen play, A Doll's House. And the other books stared, for now she had no need of them.

Description
         The books stared down at her. Her worn favourites were slightly unhappy, those untouched bindings were disappointed. The old Harry Potters on the left leaned against eachother like a group of old friends strolling in the park on a crisp autumn day. All those eighteen Star Trek novels sat like sardines, suffocating happily in the shelf that was too small but she really never got around to moving those books. And the rest of the family was up above, between her eyes and the lamp that had beamed down on her through many midnights and two o' clocks and three o' clocks, the one o' clocks always seeming as ephemeral as that person you thought you saw when you see a coat on a hatstand out of the corner of your eye. That lamp. That silly manmade light that books try to protect you from by letting you dive into those magnificent vistas of dragons and the human mind and the 1920's and the handsome and loyal men.
         They try to dim the light with their slate pages. Slate is opaque, you know. Useful for blocking the light from your eyes. And you can write on it. But it's very easy to break and slate has a rather unpleasant and uncomfortable texture, and you will never be able to truly become one with slate. No matter how many times you put it under your down pillow in the hopes that it will speak to you with candor and acceptance and reassurance. And as much as you hold it up to the light and shield your face, your body will always be in the light, for those pieces of slate are never quite large enough and if they are then you're in a coffin of slate with the world continuing without you outside.
         But she thinks that that silly manmade light is just blocking something greater behind it. Something vast and wonderful, if only she wasn't blinded by that silly manmade light.
         She pulled the trigger. Her forehead fell upon that Ibsen play, A Doll's House. And the other books stared, for now she had no need of them.