Sustenance

For my amazing friend Julia ( n_e_v_e_r_l_a_n_d ) This story exists because of you;)

I close the book for the final time. The soft thump of the new hard cover book is bittersweet and satisfying. I sit there for a minute, processing the ending. It was a good one. One where they all live happily ever after. It was sappy and cliche, but in a way that's the best kind of story. The cliche ones of course, why else would something be cliche if it wasn't good. If it wasn't used constantly. It's called cliche for a reason!

After my momentary reminiscence I am left ravished. So once again I open the front cover as I have so many times before and start carefully ripping out the pages. I do so lovingly, tenderly, a bit regretfully, but it must be done.

I shove the torn page into my mouth. I let it soften for a second and then I chew and swallow. I continue with the next page. And then next one, and the next one, and the one after that. Page after page gets torn from its binding. Each page I consume greedily. I lap up the words, occasionally rereading a few of my favorite passages before they disappear down my throat. Like a giant rabbit hole, I think, giggling at my reference. Down they go. Down, down, down.

I continue to devour the book. The pages. The words. I lick them clean off the pages, I slurp them up like soup. I munch on the left over paper like chips, like crackers.

Finally I've finished all of the pages and am left with only the cover.

I smile. The cover is sometimes the best part. I take a big bite. The book's binding tears away easily between my teeth, like biting into a soft, freshly baked cookie. It's sweet, this one, it has a nice crunch to it. I savor it as I bite and swallow, as I chew slowly, trying to make it last as long as it possibly can, trying to make it last forever.

My meal is now finished and I'm a little sad it's gone, but I'll remember it. There's no need for worry. I remember them all. And even if I do forget one, there will be a thousand more like it.

I look around my library at all of the books on the shelves, little ones, big ones, skinny, fat, old, new ones, on and on they go, sitting and waiting to be read. Waiting to be loved, to be absorbed, to be utilized. Waiting to be eaten.

I lay on a cushion in the sun on the floor of my library. The giant windows on the walls let in the sun all day, so many kinds of light filter through into the room.

My favorite time is now, when the sun's light starts to dwindle, when the light becomes soft and tranquil but brilliantly bright and exciting at the same time. It promises to leave, making room for the moon's light, for the stars' light, which is also bewitchingly beautiful itself. But it lingers long enough to promise to be back again the next day, to fill the world, to fill my library, with its magical rays.

The cushion is cozy and the light calming, and with my stomach full and thoughts overflowing I lay and ponder what the others must think. I think about them a lot.

The others.

They think they're all high and mighty. That they're something special. They look at me like I'm a freak. Like I'm something abnormal. Something not human. I try and think of something else, something other than their normality, something other than their "humanity". Except I pause for a moment, I analyze their judgments of me, their rude actions towards me, the names they've so graciously bestowed upon me. I scoff at them and decide normal is silly. Normal is overrated. Normal is cliche. (But not the good kind). Most of all, normal is sad.

I rather like being abnormal if it means I can stay in my library with all of my books.

Them, out there, the so called normal people just don't understand. Although it's not a very difficult concept to grasp. It's simple really. It's exactly as it sounds.