This is Insignificant, at Most

Among the most common place archives building lays a book. It's decrepit pages withered and worn by oily finger tips. If I recall correctly, if you travel along to the fifty seventh column in and the thirty fourth row down, search the third shelf from the bottom, proceeding from there to count to the ninth book from the left in the 'S' section you will arrive at the resting place of this infamous literature. I presume it is still leather bound and dust covered. It's significance may render equal to the dried moth husks one would find decorating the dingy, off-white window sills of said library.

But I digress, during your meandering through the countless books screaming for your attention, you obviously happened upon this one and chanced to flip to page two hundred and thirteen. That story, my uninformed friend, is this one. I am not here to discuss religion (god forbid another atheist publishes their explicit commentaries and biases about man's most fatal flaws), politics or the likes. Such topics regularly compose a rather dreary study, in my opinion. Alternatively, I would much enjoy chattering about a slightly more philosophical subject matter (perhaps over tea and crumpets?). For instance, this story (if you can call it that), is a small leaflet in a relatively insignificant book. That book is among an even greater count, perhaps thousand fold, of books whose innards contain dragon & princess fairy tales to scientific explanations of biological functioning.

Without having personally stumbled upon my exuberant writings, one would never have fathomed such a work possibly exists. Their conscience remaining satisfied and untroubled by the absence of my story. Such a pathetic tale, indeed this must be. Woe is me, who squanders my precious time preaching to an undeserving audience. They relish no uneasy feelings or pangs of conscience as to conduct. They possess no qualms about their dishonesty. Jabbering away, discarding my wondrous thoughts for worse. For shame!

I presume, arriving at a conclusion based on the fact that you must be intrigued enough to linger and remain perusing the published form of my inner thoughts, you are most likely slumped against the adjacent shelf, utilizing your knees as a prop for this awkward book as you forge on with your interpretations. Do you think, in the library which you managed to discover me, there is another soul in an identical situation? Hunched over a quaint book, lost in a world not their own, ignorant to their surroundings. Much like you, except for my acknowledging this must have brought your present surroundings and the environment beyond your sights to the foremost of your conscience. Ha, ha! My condolences for disrupting your picturesque, serene state of being. Now I stray to an indirectly relevant string of ideas. What of the vehicles or persons outside the building? Do they stop to think of the lonely human absorbed in a story and how he thinks of their actions? I doubt that. You are alone in a detached world as a result of your decisions and an insignificant story.

You know not who I am, what I look like or where I reside. Essentially, the extent of your acquaintance with me extends only to what you may have gathered from a few brief paragraphs. For all you fathom, I am not real. But! “Cogito, ergo sum“. I think therefore I am. This story is within the realms of my consciousness because I think it so. Your opinion on my existentialism may differ slightly from a previous reader or myself, but alas you cannot deny the impossibility of reality beyond our now created quaint world and plausibility of reality within it. You have been trapped by the proverbial shark whose teeth sank into your mind the minute your unfortunate eyes strained across this page. I now bid thee, fish bait, adieu.

Prevalently Yours,
~Chiko.