Slow Living Stillness Comfort in Pages Soulful Writing

I used to think a safe space was a person—
someone I could cling to,
someone who would anchor me with their knowing.

But I’ve been corrected.

The library is my safe space.
Here, there is no right or wrong.
No pressure to choose the correct face,
no fear that my words will be too much,
or not enough.
No deed is too direct,
or too restrained.

There’s no need to perform.
No urgency to “be somewhere”
for fear that life outside is racing ahead
and I must catch up
or be forgotten.

There are no shifting opinions here—
no trend masquerading as law.
Only pages.
Ideas already stripped bare.
Words that have outlived judgment,
floating around me like a blanket.

They are just there—
for the taking,
for the mending.

Here, I get to choose what I consume.
What I transform.
Here, I’m not behind.
I’m not failing.
I’m not watched.

Time stands still.
I am free.
The library is my safe space, after all.

Meestique