Can you even believe it. Do you see it. Is that a tail sticking out of those pages or just a book mark left by some kid with an over active imagination.
How many ideas do you think any one library contains at any given time. What about the biggest ones. If you spent one month going to a library every day for a couple hours do you think you'd be the same person by the end of it. Do you think you can do it. Would you be able to stop or get lost in the forest of words. How many trees live on in memory as every day new stories are planted. What could you accomplish now that you know how to work for it.
Can anything be more satisfying than imagining the impossible. What would that mean to you as confusion yields to possibility. Will your mind expand or explode. Will you ever come back from the edge now that you've seen into the abyss. Do you understand you're one irreplaceable item on an ever growing list.
What would you do with the ideas you discover. Which ones rise to the top. Would you find a place for them in your life. Is there room. Can you find a place on your shelf where the colours match and the bindings collapse the distance between your dreams and your reality. How do they play with your old ideas. Does everyone get along. Do you require them to.
Why are you so perfectly happy alone in a cocoon of fossilized thought. Isn't there more to life than chasing your tail. What if you write something new and forget about that thing you used to do. Is it worth taking a chance to remind yourself anything is possible if you try. Do you deserve to be happy. Are you entitled or obliged.
Is a book any heavier than living the same day again and again. Do the pages stick to your fingers as you run them across the textured print. Is it wrong to read minds. Would the authors approve of your view. Do you feel naughty judging someone else's world. Will you continue their tradition. Will you carry their ideas forward and build upon them or pretend you've seen enough. Do the names on these books ever humble you.
As the librarian walks by do you secretly peek up through your glasses to see if she notices you reading one of her books. Why doesn't she ever notice you reading her books. Are they really her books. Aren't they everyone's books. Who can claim an idea yet ignore the ones who bring such opportunity to our door.
What's the point of collecting books if no one ever experiences their purpose to re-purpose. Why read if not to reveal. Who are you and why do you care what others think yet desperately avoid learning what others have taught. Does anyone truly understand the vast depth of knowledge expressed in primitive ink impressions on leaves. What kind of timeless beauty requires no form yet can take any form composed of the materials available.
Who's the original in a room full of copies. Where's the source of all these games. Can you surf the periodicals long enough to find out. Aren't you tired. When are you going to take a break. What's your sip-to-word ratio, how's your coffee this morning, and don't forget the essentials like did you remember to brush your hair.
Has something changed in here. Is that lilac or fear. Is that another reader looking your way. What's she reading. Those are nice nails don't you think. Are those little candles warming her page turning hand. Can she do that without... what's her name. Why don't you walk on over and ask. What if she doesn't see you.
Where'd she go. Have you missed your chance. Maybe you'll get another but what if you don't. Where's the bathroom. Can you catch your breath... life moves so fast, sometimes, like paper cutting your finger tips. Can you hide in this bathroom forever.
Where's your favourite chair. Did someone touch your books. Hey, who put this note on your table. What's it say. Are you having a good day. Excuse me, may I sit here with you and read... I never would have believed...What colour are those eyes. Yes! [Clears throat] I mean, yes... won't you. Please?