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A recorded reading of “The Quiet Archivist”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
I used to chase the sky for answers, like peace was something I could win— but the quiet archivist in me slid out a chair: Sit. Let it begin. No fireworks. No big reveal. Just room-tone and a steady glow— lamp glass filmed with my last breath, a thumbprint I don’t bother to erase. I file my fears like worn-out papers: crease, date, margin-note, stain. I lift them by the gentlest corner so they don’t split again— a tiny paper-cut memory of how care can still hurt, and still be care. —hinge-chime, hardly there— I don’t chase the sky. I become it: blue reflected on the page, a window-square laid quiet on the floor. I don’t beg for love. I let it come in the way light comes in— through whatever I leave unlatched. Quiet hands. Steady pages. I’m learning how to stay: tongue resting behind my teeth, jaw released one notch, breath finding its own pace in the room I keep. Some nights the old cords twitch, trying to tug me back to doubt. I don’t yank. I don’t argue. I speak to them like children— soft voice, no shouting out: You’re here. You’re safe. Loosen. And the library stays open— not demanding, not severe— just making room for every chapter, even the ones I couldn’t bear. I slide the “should” into its folder. I label the “what if” and shelve it. Card tabs neat as little flags, each one a place to set a weight down. I slip one page into an acid-free sleeve— the one that still smells like storm— seal it with an accession stamp: KEEP, ink-cool, square, precise. The stamp-pad shuts with a soft kiss. —page-turn: a soft stop— I don’t chase the sky. I become it: lamp halo in the dust, a slow blue settling in my ribs. I don’t beg for love. I let it come in. Quiet hands. Steady pages. I’m learning how to stay— even when the drawer runner sticks, even when a memory snags and the paper wants to tear. (spoken vow) I promise: no more living like a locked door. No more turning every feeling into why. I’ll keep my heart on open shelves— and let the lamp do what it does. —final lift, smaller than a shout— I don’t chase the sky. I become it: a room of air, a window-square of light that doesn’t ask to be earned. I don’t beg for love. I let it come in. Quiet hands. Steady pages. Either way— the archivist closes the drawer until it clicks, and the room stays kind.
Lyrics
I used to chase the sky for answers Like peace was something I could win But the quiet archivist in me Said, “Sit. Let it begin.” No fireworks, no big reveal Just a lamp, a steady glow I file my fears like worn-out papers And let the dust let go I don’t need a new persona I don’t need to start a war I just need my nervous system To feel safe at its core I don’t chase the sky I become it I don’t beg for love I let it come in Quiet hands, steady pages I’m learning how to stay I don’t chase the sky I become it Either way, I’ll stay Some nights the old cords twitch Try to pull me back to doubt But I talk to them like children Soft voice, no shouting out And the library stays open Not demanding, not severe Just making room for every chapter Even the ones I couldn’t bear If I’m tender, that’s not weakness That’s the truth with better light If I’m quiet, that’s not hiding That’s me choosing what is right I don’t chase the sky I become it I don’t beg for love I let it come in Quiet hands, steady pages I’m learning how to stay I don’t chase the sky I become it Either way, I’ll stay I promise: no more living like a locked door No more turning every feeling into “why” I’ll keep my heart in open shelves And let the light do what it does I don’t chase the sky I become it I don’t beg for love I let it come in Quiet hands, steady pages I’m learning how to stay I don’t chase the sky I become it Either way
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