Library's Dream

It's such a weird feeling
waking up at 3am and
feeling more empty than
when I went to bed.
My eyes crack open like
the beginning to a new chapter
of a tragedy written in a language
that no one could ever read.
Maybe someday, someone will
take the pages from my mystery
and make beautiful origami swans.
I just want to rip the pages from my
being and watch as they burn. There's
a kind of subtle poetic line to all of this.
Or maybe it's a metaphor.
The meaning behind all of this is that
while my mind feels like thousands upon
thousands of stories and recollections
of ancient histories I've never known,
my words tend to get tied up like
shoelaces by a toddler. My pages
have fresh ink on them, because I'm still
growing this library I own. My calligraphy
is shaky and immature; my time has been
spent experiencing the stories rather than
writing them down. Rather than saving them.
The rows and stacks and uncleaned hallways
of stories and letters have been in this
library of a brain my entire life. I still haven't
been able to decode their manuscripts. Honestly,
I've given up on trying. There's a time to stop
living in the past and to move forward, and
sometimes knowing where that line is can feel
like a novel of advice on its own. Someday, I
want to feel the lightness of a thousand years of
grief taken off my shoulders. I want to see a fresh,
newly-bound book land at my feet, near my end,
that is simply titled: You Were Alive.

What a story it's going to be.