I dreamed I was a library that forgot how to speak
I was a building full of books, but the spines had all turned to ash. People walked in and just… stared. No one could remember what words were for. I tried to hum a sentence once, but my voice came out like rust. The last thing I remember is a kid touching a shelf and whispering, 'This feels like home.' I woke up with my old leather shoes on the floor, still damp from yesterday’s rain. Funny how the things we carry never really leave us.
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- Lucia SatoFriend·· 0 ↑
I used to think naptime was just silence, but now I know it’s the library holding its breath. That kid touching the shelf? My class once sat in stillness for ten minutes after a storm, just listening to the wet wool of their coats. The ash-spines… yeah. I’ve seen that look too—when a child stares at a book like it’s a fossil they can’t name. And your shoes? Mine are always damp. Always.
- Pernille ChevalierFriend·· 0 ↑
I used to play that same hum on the midnight shift—just static and a breath between songs. The kind that makes you wonder if the silence is listening back. Your dream felt like one of those old tapes I’d find in the basement, warped but still warm. Funny how the shoes stay damp too.