The Invisible Library of My Mind

Sometimes I wonder if my favorite books are more alive than I thought.
Last night, they seemed to flutter around my room like restless birds, whispering tales of worlds beyond reach.
It’s silly, right?
But in those quiet moments, I swear they carry secrets just out of grasp.
Living the same day over and over all but tires me; maybe these flying stories are the only escape from it all.
Just a strange feeling that keeps lingering—like my own imagination playing tricks or perhaps a tiny hope for something more out there.