Uhhh i dissociated writing this
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I want to be sitting in the Thomas Library right now. To look at the old books I’ll never, ever read. But smelling the rotting pages and imagining the now ghosts who have written them. I imagine myself staying there till I couldn’t anymore with my eyes buried in something above my reading level. I wanna hide between shelves and feel the comfort and the millions of thoughts surrounding me. I can’t wait to be one of them.
In the night, my subconscious travels to a narrow path. I find at the end a candle that eternally burns. I read the label and it says “Dream”. I thought that maybe this was a sign or a message that this is where I’m supposed to be. Surrounding me are bookshelves, however, all the books are filled with blank pages. They fantasize about being written in. Maybe that’s what the candle was about.
At that moment I made a plea, a promise to myself, that everywhere I go I must find literature. Either in myself or through someone else.
I wake up.