The Smell Of Old Books

An unhealthy serving of ramblings, topped off with a morally relative sauce.

It smells like an old attic up here. Like stale wood. And I can see the light of the sign from Lowe's and I don't like it. It's bright and jarring. But at least it's constant. Nothing can really stay constant around me, my standards, my emotions, my self awareness rise and fall like waves. Develop some compassion, or I'll learn the hard way to be compassionate. I call my compassion selective compassion. But that's just me, or maybe it isn't. Because really, we are all the same on a molecular level. Neural pathways like tree branches, all that's different are which ones we use. So I'm average, and you're average, and we're all average. Together sitting in layer of hell where some light from heaven or whatever's up there shines through. Shines through small things. The ancient copy of The Little Lame Prince that's falling apart. It's browning pages with that musky smell of old paper. Smells like lemon merengue pie. And those few times when you give yourself over to virtue. Virtue, comes from the latin vir, man, virtue is our innermost self, our whole. Virtue is our most basic, most beautiful nature. Some call it sin. So I can let it consume me and nothing is meaningful, nothing matters, in fact nothing is. So I can lose that sense of self awareness to the point where there is no I. Maybe my morals are flexible to suit my needs, but they are my needs, and they are what I am. My morals change to make room for virtue. So maybe I can mold that maze through life, plowing through life with virtue. Maybe no one moved my cheese, maybe the maze is cheese. Or maybe there never was any cheese. Maybe there never was. But now I'll convince myself I'm being delirious, and I'll stop. But I won't stop, I'll keep thinking of the smell of the books in the old attic and the neon sign in the window. That sickly, disgusting perfection that letting what is simply be.