There’s a room in the cafe I frequent that is called the Library Room. I’ve sat there only a couple of times, as it’s ironically the space that is least conducive to writing, for me. The strangest reason for this is that it’s too quiet and calm. In the main cafe space, there is music and talking, the noise of plates and cups and silverware clinking, the indecisive bantering of confused customers and patient workers. It’s a challenge to block it all out, and I prosper under a challenge.
Without distraction and background noise, there is nothing to push against, no focus that must be mustered, and the words somehow don’t flow as easily. My mind hasn’t quite figured out the intricacies behind it, other than this initial hypothesis. And I’m already tired, hence this hasty ending to a post that has me antsy to get out of the Library Room and back into the main flow of life.
It is at odds with so much I once thought about myself. This room is dangerous that way.
