A little something I wrote right after I visited the library.
I visited the british library and the experience was a hundred times better than i imagined. The silence of those dug into books (and laptop screens because, well, technology) gave me a strange hope and happiness. I just wanted to stand there and keep staring at them (which i did, for a while)
The architecture of the place did not surprise me; it was beautiful as ever, with copious amount of free space for people to sit. It was huge with a magnanimous air to itself; as if it was aware of all the minds it sheltered.
The exhibitions were breathtaking. The very first manuscripts of Shelly, Jane Austen, Emily Bronte, Thomas Hardy, Dickens and so many others who helped build the british literature heritage that exists today adorned the glass shelves with a whole lot of cultural pride. The writing desk of Jane Austen, where, i believe, she must have spent ample time just penning down the lives of Emma, the Bennets, and Darcy, still looked quite intact.
Numerous Qur’ans and Bibles shed a ciphered light into the cryptic dark room.
I couldn’t help but find myself lost in the Probablys and Maybes of what it must have been like living in the age of quills dipped in ink, when writing was more than ever about expression. When there was uncertainty at every step and that’s exactly what kept one going.
Sometimes I think the idea of yellow, torn, antiquated paper with ink words and blots on it is what i write for, in my head. Always sitting on the table, scribbling like a voyager trying to get every direction of the journey right, I can often feel myself hoping that some day when I’m dead and gone, my words will stay behind long after me and someone, if not everyone, will relate to them just like i do right now.
It’s every Writer’s unspoken dream to have their words scream in the ruckus of the next generation. Whether or not one admits.