Lost in the Library

I am a weasel, a long, hairy mammal lost in the library. I crawl through the books, underneath the weighty, vast stacks of paper, glue and shelving. I am become a creature of print and air, ideas and sins, a history that never happened and is happening now. I disappear into Borges' library, yet it is not byzantine enough for what I'm seeking. The more I read, and think, and type, and write, the farther I get from the end of my thoughts. Yet the end approaches relentlessly, begging the question of whether I will welcome it sooner rather than afterwards. Such a pleasant thought to end the reverie, to lay down and simply accept- is this not the goal of the Buddhists? Ultimate acceptance of the human dilemma? Or is it an ultimate understanding of the dilemma which is unending, irreversible and immutable? More words, more air, more sins...