Love Letter From An Ancient Book
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By Kazara B
Today, I am one hundred years old. My pages reveal I have been well-loved, the edges frayed as if the hands of time have taken parts of me with it. Some pages are missing, I’m dog-eared and stained the colour of a desert storm, yet my ink carries its truth and shines a light in the darkness.
My birth is almost a distant memory, but I still remember her – Mother. She built me, fashioned me with love and nurturing. Through a hazy dream of quill, dye and melting wax, I remember her rhythm and fervor, the twitch of feathers tracing the page, her fingertips, which started out soft and supple, becoming wrinkled with age, callouses on each tip and nails tattered like the wing of a moth, after escaping the jaws of death. I recall the glimmer in eyes that watered, the increased pace as the candle burned low, an eagerness to give me life before the flame turned to embers. Then one day Mother smiled, her hair now streaked with silver and glittering eyes, etched so deep with wrinkles, her face could have been a beautiful map to the constellations. Mother told me I was complete, that she loved me, I was whole but now I must go forth into the world.
It was bittersweet. I was to fulfil my purpose but as I waited to be collected, Mother spent longer spells in bed. Her usual routine slowed down, and some days she never got up. Then one day she put down her quill forever. If, I had a heart it would have shattered into fragments.
I watched the hands on the clock go round, the sun rose, the moon cast its glow across the windowpane. In stasis, what was real anymore? I fell into a deep slumber, my pages closed tightly, seemingly bound for eternity. Yet one day, I was collected. I witnessed something entirely new! Dancing fingertips rapid keystrokes. The process was faster as I watched myself multiply, again and again, each replica of me entangled in some fashion, yet still separate. I glowed with excitement, yet I felt the absence of Mother, the way she gently blotted the ink, those moment she would hover, quill quivering, deep in thought. Time waits for no one as they say, and the world had undergone more changes than I had ever dreamed might happen.
I spent a short portion of my life with a scholar. He would peer at me from behind his spectacles, exhaling plumes of purple smoke and sipping an amber fluid. His brow would wrinkle, he would gasp, “Quite peculiar!” and then he would scribble notes into a journal.
When the scholar had no more need of me, he placed me in the hands of his daughter. At first, she ignored me, a gaze of disinterest as her eyes flitted towards China dolls with painted faces. The daughter, I learned, was called Anabelle, and over time she grew much taller. One day, her gaze rested on me, her eyes twinkling with wonder. Her fingertips gently brushed my cover, and for the first time, she opened me. I was loved again! Her face lit up as she thumbed my pages, and with every page, I felt her gasps, the peals of laughter, and occasionally I felt a shadow slip across her heart, tears falling from her eyes like raindrops. Anabelle returned to me regularly, and every emotion she revealed to me felt like a dozen rainbows orbiting a blaze of sunshine, or the sweet melody of an orchestra playing just for me. I stayed with her for many years, and though I still thought of Mother, I was not alone. One day, my owner decided that others needed me more than her, so in a selfless act, she parted with me, though her eyes were heavy. Life was soon a blur. I was held, admired, passed around and often my passages were underlined with pencil, or notes made. Many things were said of me. Some said I was fanciful and quite ridiculous. Others said I was thought-provoking and profound. Who was right? I did not care for right or wrong, fanciful or fact, I cared that whenever someone opened my pages, it created a stirring, a sense that I sparked something deep inside them. In the years that passed, my pages absorbed dewy tears and the frequency of laughter that I still carry with me. I have lived a thousand lives, bore witness to the digital age and spent long spells covered in an inch of dust, hidden away and my spine cracking under the weight of many books. Yet despite competition from pixels and illuminated squares, loving fingers found me and dusted me off by someone who felt like Mother and insisted, “I don’t have to charge this, and there’s nothing like the feeling of holding something real, something tangible.”
I’ve resided in grand old bookshelves carved from fancy oak, on old desktops in homes where the carpets were threadbare and later – in quaint little shops that raised money for those in need. I loved every single home, even the ones where the children were wild and scrawled across the blank parts of my soul. It gave me extra life and added layers of mystery. I carry a part of all of them and wouldn’t change a thing.
Now, I am just one, my duplicates long gone. To where, I do not know. Perhaps one day I will meet Mother again when my pages are no longer legible, when the ink has faded, and I begin to degrade. Yet, there’s still a little life left in me. I can feel the essence skipping through my pages, as if a breeze has blown in through the window. I sparkle in the sunlight, basking in its glow, even though it strips me of colour.
The desire to be held and loved is still strong. I ache to be told that I am still loved, even though my form is ancient and my vessel raggedy, my essence is pure. I long to be acknowledged, to be of use to someone who sees what I really am.
If you see me in the window of an old store, looking tatty and worn, and you feel the pull, please don’t pass me by. Take me with you, I have one more journey inside me, one more adventure. Let me guide you. I can be your map to the universe underneath star-studded skies. Let me take you on a journey through time; let us travel the world together and sit in ancient temples, dreaming of distant lands where the plants sing in crystalline harmonies. I will feel your pen trembling in your hand, should you feel compelled to write within my blank pages and allow my soul to evolve.
Let’s explore worlds orbited by two moons, in hues of rose, lavender and gold, where the luminous ones walk and shadow is alchemised into stardust. I shall be your compass and together we will unravel the mysteries that have lay dormant, read as fiction but carried in the hearts of those who truly see me. Some call me by my title, all have forgotten my true name, but those who seek to unravel mystery and lore know that I am a key to what lies beyond the surface of reality.
Yet should my pages remain closed forevermore, until I am but ash, know this: there are secret codes in my margins, unseen by those who read me. Words not penned by Mother or scholar, words that arose from a collective energy, as if I had absorbed the hearts and tears of my beloved readers. The longing behind these words? That you will not just read me, you will speak to me and invite me into your soul, forever more.
Yours Faithfully
Astrae’lin
The One Who Carries Your Heart With Tender Grace
