Bibliotheca

It seems as though it has been years
Since I first found this place—
Since I first awakened.
From that moment,
I began wandering these
Winding shelves,
These endless halls
And endless rooms
Of books—
Books without meaning,
Books filled with purpose—
For in this place,
In this infinite Library,
All language,
Be it comfortable, familiar sound
Or mindless babble,
Has the terrible power
Of a god.

Every so often,
Another Librarian passes by
(A rare event now,
As so many seem to have sought escape
From the endlessness,
Have fallen into a cyclical abyss),
Giving news of a search
For the Book—
The Book in which all books
Are catalogued
(I never give the search much heed,
As there are an infinite number of Books
To refute the One for which they search—
I dare not speak of it though,
For the fall is a long one,
And those who seek
Are desperate).

I continue walking.
There are books of interest,
Books filled with a dangerous
Kind of gibberish,
Books filled with a senseless
Madness that,
When multiplied over the years
And years and years
Twists the mind
Into a form resembling the labyrinths
Through which we all wander—
Strings cut
As we hide from the minotaurs—
The monsters that would end our journey.

It is an exhausting thing.
I have, as we all do in the end
(We are all so very impotent,
However much power we may profess
To have over our odyssey),
Found the solution to the maze,
The puzzle.
The Library only ever leads
To one place.
The ouroboros has only one end,
Only one beginning.