The Willow Village Library is my primary place of residence, and as such it is where I spend the bulk of my time. It is also my place of current employment, even though I can not even be sure what title it is that I hold in this place.

There is an adjoining kitchen off to the side. It is inexplicably stocked with food and other nourishments. I have attempted to try and find out how it is being stocked, but to no avail. No matter how much I eat or how much of a mess that I make. It is always clean as soon as I return.

The bedroom upstairs is sparsely furnished, but adequately. There is a dresser to keep the few things that I brought along with me as well as a nightstand and a desk that I rarely use. My quarters have no particular problems persay, it is just that the library itself is significantly more well…. I wouldn’t go as far as to say welcoming… But it calls to me.

So I answer that call.

The library always smells of its primary content, which is of course the journals. They scare me more than I like to admit. I say that all I’m doing is a bit of research, that I am staring through all these stories that are fiction, but I know that I am lying to myself.

Are they real? I haven’t the faintest clue. Even if they are fake, what options does that leave me after every other thing that has happened to me? That somehow all this was engineered with the sole purpose of toying with me?

No. Even if they are fake, Willow Village isn’t. At least not on the surface. Maybe I am dead, or dreaming….or maybe I am crazy? Well that’s a funny thought, holding onto my sanity in this place was always out of the question. So that means I’m definitely crazy. Also, I’m off topic here, back to the library.

The library itself is massive, and stocked to the brim with these journals. I suppose that this is my job now, trying to piece together any of this, to make some kind of sense. Maybe that’s not why I am here though, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps this is somehow my own doing.

I spent so long trying different things at life, not knowing what exactly it is that I wanted. Confused and moving through the motions without a firm goal. What if this is just… How my story ends? What if there is nothing to find or discover here? What if it is all just loose anarchy that will never make any kind of sense, no matter how much I want it to?

It doesn’t matter, none of it matters now. I am stuck here performing research that I don’t understand, surrounded by stories that aren’t mine, unsure of where it is that my tale will even end. Perhaps it was always meant to be this way. Maybe this is the end?

Dead the day that I got here…maybe not actually dead, but to the rest of the world I may as well be. Lost in a town that has a purpose for me.

Eternal torture perhaps? Maybe there is some kind of reality show happening? Perhaps dead is just the answer as to what I am now.

Madness, that’s what this place feels like. I feel like it slithers up inside my nostrils and makes its home in my mind. It’s only sometimes though, other times everything seems to be fine, but that feels like a trick. It’s as if this place knows that I am on edge and is seeking to throw me off the trail.

The trail of what? This damned library is not meant to exist. I can feel it in the very depth of my soul, this place shouldn’t be here, which means I shouldn’t be here. Yet I can’t shake the feeling that there is no other choice, as if arriving here has always been my purpose..

I can’t remember how long I have been here either. Months? Years? Weeks? No.. Longer than months for sure. All the days have blended together almost seamlessly, yet I can separate at least hundreds of days. Longer perhaps? It doesn’t matter, time is a construct that is no longer important.

I can’t even be sure that my own thoughts and feelings are my own. This place burrows deep and changes you from the inside. I need to find a way to ground myself, to make sure that I don’t lose focus, a way to make sure that it is me inside of my own head. The library has a plan… Whatever that plan is… it can’t be good.