the librarian

i.    as soon as she wakes, she writes. it's her curse. ink bleeds on the tips of her fingers, leaving incriminating evidence on the yellowed pages her hasty script graces, a victorian quill in her grasp. she writes to remember who she is. for every night when she goes to sleep, she forgets.

ii.    she writes notes on paper dresses, the only garments that populates the wooden closet filled with mothballs. she moves the dresses to hang on the bookshelf. they always end up in the closet again. she eventually moves out of that room. it doesn't matter. every room accommodates for her. her skirt flutters like pages turning as she walks.

iii.    the musty smell of aged leather and parchment, though permeating the wooden structures she wanders through, never bother her. she simply walks through them as if they were water. they do not stick to her like they do to others, it's been decided that she doesn't need reminding of this place. it's been too long since she's left. they doubt she ever will.

iv.    words tattooed on her skin move, forming and reforming sentences, fantasies, epics that she cannot see unless she stares into the silver-backed mirror now covered with dust. they curl around her eye, dancing down to her shoulders and play in circles around her stomach. perhaps her thoughts make them move. she's never stopped to think about it.

v.    she looks different every day, everything changes but her mannerisms. she reflects all those who love her, who reside within her. it's difficult sometimes, all those memories flying around in her millennium mind. but she manages, sorting them like she sorts the shelves of leather-bound and loose-covered pages. each face is unique, and she treats it as such. but each time she wakes, she finds herself longing for something, for someone, an entity that not even she, with her organisation and calm, can remember.

vi.    she always smells like home, her favourite perfume. she spritzes it on her wrists and her collarbone daily, the bottle always at arms reach whenever she needs it, and breathes in the scent. it gives her comfort, like a ghostly embrace. to the lonely journal keeper, it smells like white oak and macaroons. to the quiet researcher, it smells like hawthorn berries and smoke. but to her, it smells no different to the aged leather and parchment she breathes.

vii.    her eyes tell stories, but her mouth and hands tell more. there used to be children. children running through the grandiose architecture of this space, but they'd all come and listen when she told them tales of adventure and friendship. her arms would be animated - the biggest smile on her face - and her voice would turn from that of a noble queen's to a storyteller's hush in seconds. it's been too long since there were children here. far too long. she misses telling those stories.

viii.    she's missing her ring finger from when the library of Alexandria burned down. she rubs it absentmindedly as she goes about her duties, shelving, reshelving, stocktaking, reading. too many stories were lost in an avoidable catastrophe, she often thinks to herself. but as she stares up at the wooden arches of her home, she worries.

ix.    she is the librarian. no glasses, nor evil glares. not old, nor young. no reminders to return the book you borrowed (she knows a good book keeps a hold of its reader), nor fines when you forget to return it at all. she knows books are meant to be loved (though she thinks people who dog-ear or rip their pages need to be reeducated) and has no qualms about who is to love them.

x.    she is the librarian.

xi.    she is eternal.