The librarian drifted through the piles of books like a spectre.
As he shuffled through the maze of scrolls, tomes and lost pages, he paused occasionally, lifting a glass lantern to illuminate a spine or to navigate the paper-strewn floor. He passed the only window: a small slit in the carved stone exterior of the tower, through which the merest whisper of moonlight was visible, glistening blue on the mountains, shimmering in the mist. He paused.
Trapped! I’m trapped in a cage, frozen in ice, gathering dust… When they find me I will be no more than that – bonedust, and cobwebs. These wormy books will outlive me… This is the fate of a coward. Solitude. Oblivion. No one will remember me… Who remembers the librarian? Who spares a thought for an old man in a tomb of books…?
And I suppose I’ll go mad… Perhaps I have already gone mad – driven mad by my own company!
How will I ever know? There is no one here to tell me that the voices I hear aren’t real..
(inspired from Beginnings workshop)