Finding The Library

Today I awoke in darkness. I thought my eyes were closed, but they were not. A cool breeze blew in from my side, though. My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, and a door began to come into focus.

The door was old, made of wood it seemed, darkened with time. Heavy, dense wood. Several iron bars ran across it vertically and horizontally, forming a sort of checkerboard pattern. The iron was worn and rusted, echoing the sentiments of the wood.

It looked ancient, hand-made, with imperfections that gave it life.

I looked down and saw a swooping handle, no latch, just a handle. The door looked like it might open inward.

I reached out and pushed. There was a gentle resistance at first. As time released its grip, groaning and cracking filled the air. Iron dust puffed out from the hinges and began to linger around me.

The door swung open. I peered inside.

A small flickering light glowed somewhere within, but all else was dark.

Unsure what to do, but also unsure what other option I had, I entered the room. I stood in the doorway, waiting. For what, I am not sure. Perhaps for my eyes to adjust to the dim light some more.

I eventually moved toward the light in the center of the room. There was a table that appeared to speak of time just as the door had.

Then I felt another breeze, this time from inside the room. I looked over my shoulder and saw a faint beam of light with newly unsettled dust dancing in its glow.

I carefully walked over to the light and could now see what looked like window shutters. I felt around in the dark and found a latch. I pulled the latch up and the shutters opened. Light burst into the room.

My eyes felt offended, and I sneezed.

As my senses came back into alignment, I looked around and found that I was in an old, dusty library.

Shelves upon shelves lined with books.

I walked back toward the table. A large globe stood in the corner, though I couldn't make out what it depicted. To the east, an unlit fireplace held wood ready to burn. More windows waited to be released. Life-sized statues and miniature figures in various forms lined the room, with small curiosities scattered across the shelves.

As I neared the table, I noticed a single book I did not remember seeing before. Had I simply missed it in the dim light? Or had someone else placed it there?

I reached for the book and lifted it. A layer of dust slid off like sand. I blew on the cover and watched more dust spread into the air before me.

Opening the book, I saw where words should be, but they were blurred.

Then I came to a page that was clear.

January 22, 2025. Book Fragment 02

As I meditated this morning, an image came to me: a creaky wood and steel door, accompanied by the sound of it opening. I entered that space and found myself in an old dusty library full of dusty books.

I began dusting the books off and lighting torches around the library. I set up a reading table with a candle, opened a giant window, and repaired the door to this space. Then I just sat there and breathed in the essence of this vast library....

The entry faded...a ghostly smell of sage lofted past my nose and disappeared.

How strange, I thought, not knowing what to make of the appearing and disappearing text, to say nothing of the striking parallels.

For a moment I felt like I was remembering something of myself, it lingered just out of reach, like a mist unable to be grasped and then it was gone. A chill ran up my spine.

Questions flooded my mind, who was this author? Why was only that specific text readable, and then disappeared after I read it?

I turned the book in my hands, searching for a title and author on the spine or cover. I found 'R A Brookfield' gilded in gold letters on the front, worn by time and faint. No title. No other marks. What was this?

I saw a flash of out of the corner of my eye, turned around in a startled and saw the fire place now fully lite, a cozy chair covered in sheep skin next to it, calling out to be sat upon. I went over to the chair, pulled out my journal and began to read, to remember what I could from my time in this land.

As I review my notes I am struck by the image of the king, and my question: "Why did i momentarily feel like the king?" The King

Am I the king, some higher version of myself? What are the implication of that?

I am also find myself wondering why I seem to be more aware of myself then other times. At times I remember that I have control over this place through my thoughts and at times I do not. How can I retain my own remembrance of self here?

And what happens in the in between time, where I have no notes. I seem to be whisked from one place to another...I fade off into a deep sleep, in the embrace of warmth from the fire place and the wool.