Cemetery Book

I was off, and it was a beautiful summer day in Dublin. I remember that I was missing something terribly that day, although I had no idea what it was.

I suddenly felt like visiting Glasnevin Cemetery — to lose myself in its silence, to feed that introverted beast inside me with solitude, stillness, and quiet dreams. I also felt like reading Cemetery Book — purely for the atmosphere, think what you want. But since I didn’t actually own a copy, I didn’t give it much thought.

I walked between the tombs, feeling that whatever it was I had been missing was slowly fading away, becoming more and more elusive. There was something healing about wandering alone through a place that seemed, at least at first glance, to have frozen in time.

Of course, you’re gonna say that time doesn’t really slow down. But I swear that there — along those overgrown paths, among old stone graves — it flows differently.

I headed home immersed in music, taking streets I would normally never walk along. The day was filled with golden light and a scent that brought to mind the past and people who are no longer here — and perhaps even versions of ourselves from times that now exist only as memories.

I walked into a charity shop, and the first thing I saw was Cemetery Book sitting on a shelf among the used books.

I grabbed it and headed to the park, where I sat down to read. At that very moment, a little butterfly landed on me. And for a while, I stopped longing for that unknown thing I always seem to be longing for.