Within the book

The library was filled from floor to ceiling

With books on self help, motivation and healing and philosophy...

People those who cracked the code of living, imparting their knowledge on how to...

Or people bamboozling the susceptible .

Gurus, Masters, Preachers, the disciplined, the skilled, the versed.

All in this race , trying to stay ahead of the rats.

And those few like him, who find solace amongst pages of deathless ancient notions.

I noticed him, aloof, reserved in a halo that never dwindled with hands of time.

I approached him, in an impulsive urgency of self preservation, it almost seemed natural to do so...

To shelter under his mane, under his wing... I dare not touch his aura, how then was my predicament.

My hand would reach up hesitantly , then again, fear the intensity of his ambience, I would retract... umpteen times I tried, umpteen times I failed...

Quenchless thirst would overpower at times, I remained greedy and aching in his mien, hoping, aspiring...he endured my persistence maybe , wordlessly on length.

Fear of a variety would clutch at my nape , making me uncertain, weak, and staggering.

His bibliotheca seemed monumental and me an inconsequential insect in it.

Should I seek a book for refuge? Be lost in it's mildewed pages or weather it , begin again this impossible task?