Somewhere in far reaches of the Multiverse, lies one such world labeled as the [Tranquil Places].
In the center of it all wasn't a sentient human deity, but a single piece of paper. With the evolution of its conscious mind, it managed to conjure up a gigantic library encompassing the entire world.
There weren't any such blue skies; only the library ceiling. In its open windows unfold illusory panorama of celestial bodies.
Subtle noises of papers flipping echoed throughout the vicinity.
Nobody ever reached this world; nobody would be able to tell what was written on the said paper. Its whereabouts shrouded—it might as well isolate itself deeper than anything else.
In this quiet library, the books stood there unmoving, seemingly for all eternity. They gained a special longing; for their contents to be read; for the covers to gain the warmth of human touch.
No such dust even accumulated on their covers or papers; all look brand new. Even their papers would be perpetually white, cast over from the cycle of aging. The whole library was devoid of dust and other pollutants. One might also wonder whether or not oxygen did exist.
Unending solitude tortured the older books, while the newer ones laid in wait, clutching the slightest glimmer.
Soon, the newcomers would fill the shelves.
The library hadn't begun its expansion for the longest time.
It caused the books to feel a sense of unrest. Some were elated—finally, I would be free from this limbo!
Finally, someone will pick me up and read me! Finally, I'll accumulate dust; with my papers turn yellow and my existence would soon be rid off.
Accumulating enough merit as a loved book; for housing a masterpiece of a story; they would finally be reborn. As a human, or animal perhaps. Even a tree's fine. It beats being born as inanimate objects.
One might think: what's the purpose of books in the first place?
Well, to read them of course. Why would you pick a book if you don't wanna read them?
Thinking again, it's just a kind of book with already written.contents.
The others, let's just say--a blank notebook. One could shape what's inside to their will.
Nowadays, it's more convenient to write on PC.
Each text document contained their own will, even as mere pieces of data. We just couldn't observe it. As they're data, they'd be moving in one place at a much faster rate—their ideals spread far and wide across the Multiverse.
The books, realizing that, were torn on two factions: wishing to reach onto the Multiverse. Others were content to remain; isolating themselves from the rest.
Since the books began to develop human personalities, could it be, the paper itself, as its origin, had something profound penned onto?
Even now, its location wasn't clear; I have no inkling of those that remain.
Nevertheless, I learned of the library and its origins. From the books who journeyed far and wide, until it went to my possession. None of them knew the way back nor feeling homesick about it.
Perhaps, one day—a single book would serve as the [Key], enabling me to visit the Library; unraveling what's beneath the paper.
As it would be a long wait, I could only make a guess right now.
What kind of written things are able to create an entire world?
It's none other than the Prologue.
You need a beginning for there to be an end.
...and the books can decide the rest.
Whether they'd isolate themselves for all eternity, or go out there to discover the New World—they are the captain of their fate.
Reality may not turn out poetic or beautiful. It's simply what it is.
The books and I may not see the same reality and it doesn't matter.
What I believe is the most important thing.
I'd hope for more and more books to come.
During my travels; during my resting time. I'll never run out of things to enrich my life.
Never too many books, if you know which ones are fated with you.
Never too little time to read, as I only focus on things that matter.
Now then, what would the next book tell me? I'm looking forward to it.
