There is a certain feeling that may settle itself in the pit of one’s stomach that is inexplicable with words; it is something that can only be experienced.
Welcome to The Library.
You enter, leaning against the heavy oaken door in a weak attempt to shove it open. It lets out a croak as it swings inwards on its rusting hinges, and trillions of particles of dust and lint leap up to enter your mouth, nose, and eyes.
A cough escapes your lungs as you stumble in, trying to swat away your attackers. You have no idea how you ended up here. You have no idea what you are doing. You have no idea how to get out.
But the looming shelves beckon to you, and you decide to seek comfort in the leather-bound pages packed into them. You escape the dust cloud and venture over, bare feet smacking against the floor and sending an echo across the large space.
A red spine stands out, so you receive it with open arms. It falls open in your hands and you are hit with a flood of memories.
The time that you sweated through three layers of clothing on a snowy day because you were so nervous.
The time you tried to take a picture of the gleaming full moon and the result was nothing past pure disappointment.
The time you shared your life story with a different spine, one that never responded how you wished it would.
You start to wonder if this place is filled with thoughts from the middle of the night, thoughts recorded when your heart was as heavy as your eyelids… and you are left wondering if that is the only way you are ever going to remember yourself.
In the back of your mind, your strangled, suffocating mind, resides a strange sensation. Part of you almost enjoys sifting through these pages, caring for them as if they were stories of great value and significance.
The Library just seems to do that kind of thing. There really is no way to explain it.
I meant to write/post this on Halloween, but then that didn’t happen, so here we are. Oops.