He’s been here for the past 40-odd years. Just standing here in this corner, watching, listening.. Just being. No one notices him anymore. Not the books, not the people, not the rest of the shelves. He has seen many librarians come and go. Librarians are so fickle these days – not like those of old. He doesn’t talk much. Not that shelves, in general do much talking. But he doesn’t talk even during the night when the books come to life laughing, jumping around and freaking out. The only ones who’ve heard his voice are the staid, old red leather bound volumes – who don’t talk much themselves, except to each other. The rest of the shelves ignore him for the most part – they like to bicker amongst themselves about who’s got the most number of books or the thickest books or the tallest books .. you get the point.
He doesn’t talk much. So you won’t know that it hurts him when you pluck books off him with careless abandon. Or about his ticklish spot on the left side of his third shelf. So do be careful, yeah? He’s been here for the past 40 years.
(In or near a shelf at the British Library)
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