486 - Fiction Bulle 5 words

 For the fiction bubble on 24//Jan/2024 5 words to include: Extreme, Poor, First, Sigh, Two. 

Here I am again, dear diary, inanimate. This morning, I realized my previous mistakes, you remember them, I am sure; those of composing in the third person, giving myself other first names, and overplaying my role at work. Ok, fine, I have to accept these realities, it has become clear as the hours have passed.

So, I was a peasant-librarian, but I must also admit to myself another reality. I said it was yesterday, but actually, “yesterday” is an underestimate of time. This yesterday is largely behind me, an extreme yesterday, one that dates back several years. So I say it for the very first time, my life as a peasant-librarian is much older than a day; but an old yesterday. A metaphorical 'yesterday'. I sigh, as I see more clearly my life having spent like this, one, two, three, what? No, even more than ten years since it ended.

This life had a sweet and sour mix, much like the pickles I love. This mix is therefore poor-rich: poor in long-term rewards, rich in experiences.

Sometimes poor in work atmosphere, but I also had periods rich in the confidence of superiors in my growing abilities.

The other farmers plow the land, plant seeds, wait for the plants to grow. I, as a peasant-librarian, plowed through book collections. I sowed new seeds by ordering documentary works, non-fiction, on many subjects, depending on the specificity or generality of the library where I was.

I also found novels for adults – colleagues took care of the younger ones.

I loved talking with a few colleagues and two or three superiors, and especially with professors who came to ask for very precise books in their respective fields, and the satisfaction when I had beaten them to the punch by offering exactly what they needed, was honestly one of the best experiences.

Overly passive-aggressive comments from other people who thought they were just teasing me but hurt me more than anything else are the source of my posthumous bitterness towards them – no, no one died, just the expired employment contracts it's been so long that it's a form of death, and therefore a posthumous bitterness, and hey, in my original French texte, amertume posthume would make a pretty poem with rhymes.