identical – pot roast – decorate – sign – abuse
library – amnesia – butcher – submit – sensation
Even though her shift was over, Samantha stayed in the library. She gathered her coat and bag and went to the worn oak table on the second floor, in the western corner by the tall windows. She sat in the same wooden chair she always sat in; she retrieved her dinner of leftover pot roast from her bag, as well as her leather-bound journal. Smiling, she forked the cold pieces of beef and vegetables into her mouth while she watched the sun lower towards the horizon. When she was done eating, she put the empty Tupperware and utensil back into her bag. Then she opened the decorated cover of her book and began to write:
August 28th, 2020
I should be elsewhere. I should be doing something else, but I don’t want to be. “I shouldn’t submit to being a librarian” — reading a book a day, writing to my hearts content. Today a man asked where he might find a book on butchery. He was a nice-looking man, around the same age as me. And I found myself flipping through books on meat and livestock for hours with him — It’s burdenless. I’ll not be abused into changing. Each day is identical to the last, except for the knowledge I gain, the people I meet, and the worlds I enter. I’m not seeking a sign of what to do next like I was in my earlier twenties. To anyone but me, I’m sure the sensation sounds inane, frustrating, but it’s a type of blissful amnesia. I’m a student of our collective imagination and findings; a catalogue of experiences surround me. I don’t need his love anymore. For the first time in five years, I’m making my own joy. I’m in a cocoon of the written word, a dimension of Samantha. And I’m vibrant here.
