i like to think in all of us is a library. a peaceful home to reflect, specially made for each one of us.

we spend our lives filling it with books. picture books of distant memories, anthologies of our favorite short stories to tell. there might be horror stories. there might be manuscripts filled with passions, be it musical sheets colored in chaotic scribblings, dozens of studies etched by rote and recitation, or hundreds of filled canvases, drawing your line from the young and naive, to the old and jaded, forming a mould-- a shadow cast in the shape of who you are.

which books make you laugh? which ones make you cry? are there some you wish you could throw away? or some you'd like to visit again? if you could, would you write the same story? if you would not, then what is it you would change?
tell me, which books are the ones would you read to me? and which ones are for your eyes alone?

one day, in the deepest night, the last candle in your library will flicker, soon to rest. all that will be left to do is look back on the shelves upon shelves of books you have placed. unknowable in its number, indescribable in its variety.

i hope you will have time to write at least one more story. the story of how it feels to look upon your library. of all the many, many feelings you may have. i hope the deepest is a happiness in knowing this is yours, before returning them all, never to be read again.

would it be, if i could see your library in its entirety. i would hold my breath, to take in the beauty. i would hold on to it for as long as it lasted. in the deepest part of my heart, i would write a story of my own.
the story of you.

it will be a part of my library, for as long as my candlelight remains