Day 3

Let's talk about books.
Let's talk about letters.
Let's talk about the strange itching feeling at the back of your eyes compelling you to read.
Read til dawn.
Read til your eyes hurt.
Read til the words swirl... the words aren't meant to swirl.
Rub your eyes and see them gently rotating forming strange twisted shapes.
They swirl to form faces, screaming faces.
The conglomeration of screaming mouths morphs into one singular mouth that begins to speak.

The first words are hissed, like the rustling of pages and irritated librarians shushing their patrons.
Then they become crisp words that you don't understand, though some part of you feels you should know.
All you know is that this moment is important and you can't comprehend it in the slightest.

You wonder when it will stop speaking at you, if it realises you are already lost.
Will it be angry when it realises that you are utterly ignorant and probably not who this was meant for?
You don't want to stick around and find out but you can't risk leaving.

It seems to be slowing down, its words jumbling together until it reverts to hissed nothings.
As it dissolves gradually back into words on a book that looks like an old almanac, you feel drained.
Whatever it had to say, it had been waiting such a long time and all for nothing.

You know less than you knew when you entered the library.
You don't remember entering the library.
Perhaps you have always been there too, waiting for a message you'll never understand.