The book could not be opened. Reality may be corrupt.

I went to the library to look for a book. I wasn’t looking for any book in particular, but one that explained how to do something that I wanted to do.

I entered the library’s main hall, and I headed to the shelf that stored books on the subject relating to my purposes. I found a first book whose title seemed to suit me. I took it, leafed through it and put it back; it wasn’t the book I was looking for.

I took a second one but put that back too, as it didn’t contain anything useful.

I took a third, tried to open it and … I couldn’t. I flipped it a few times in my hands to look for a seal or a hook that kept it closed and allowed me to open it; I found none.

I looked at it; in all respects, it looked like an ordinary book with a hardcover and paper pages. The only difference from other regular books was that this one apparently could not be opened.

I tried with two hands, pulling one side on one side and the other on the other to force it open, but it didn’t give in the slightest. I tried to put it on the ground and, while holding it firmly with my feet, I tried to force it from the other side with both hands; nothing, it didn’t open.

I tried it out with the tip of the keys, trying to slip them between the pages; still nothing.

Then, I gathered all my strength and threw it violently into the middle of the lane I was in; a great flight, a great thud, but the book was closed.

I went to retrieve it at the end of the aisle, picked it up, and, just to reassure myself, I looked first at the back and then at the front. Now I was sure; this was the book I was looking for!

The Third Floor went missing

I woke up, and like every morning, I took a shower, ate breakfast and got dressed to get out and go to work. I put on my coat, opened the door and locked it behind me. I walked down the stairs, and once I got to the third floor, there was the second floor in its place. I then decided to go back to the fifth floor, where my apartment was, and try again. I thought I may have lost the third floor along the way.

Once I got back to the fifth floor, I found the sixth floor. I then went down the stairs back to the second floor to see if the third floor was perhaps back, but there were no traces of the third floor. I continued from the second floor to the first and then to the ground floor, where there was the exit.

I opened the exit door to get out because, maybe, the third floor had gone out too without anyone noticing it. However, I found myself back into my apartment as if I had just come back through the balcony door. 

I closed the balcony door behind me and walked towards the entrance door. I turned the handle, but it was locked because I had locked it a few moments earlier the first time I got out. I unlocked it, went out for the second time from my fifth-floor apartment, and locked the door behind me again. It was then that I realised I was on the third floor. At last, I did find it!

The Writing Pen

I took a pen to write some notes in a notebook when suddenly the pen started writing by itself. Not precisely by “itself” as if alone; instead, as I held it in my hand, it started pouring out words and phrases which did not come from me.

Even though I was holding the pen in my hand and, physically, I was the one writing, what ended up on the paper was in no way the result of my labour. All the words and phrases came out of the pen itself as if it had a mind of its own and had an unexpected urgency to express itself.

I was having a hard time keeping up with its pace. It looked as if the pen had many things to tell and wanted to tell them quickly. It continued to write at a frenetic pace for a while, and I could not even grasp the meaning of any of its sentences.

After several pages, the pen suddenly stopped, and I let myself go, exhausted, laying against the chair. In front of me, there were now written pages of content I knew nothing about.

I took the notebook in my hand and slowly leafed through it, glancing at the written pages. I then got up from my desk while still holding the notebook. I then tripped over the legs of the chair and, in an attempt to maintain my balance, I accidentally let the notebook fall to the floor.

As soon as it hit the ground, all the words written inside it broke off the pages and randomly scattered on the floor. Some of the words even broke into multiple syllables or letters. I collected them meticulously, and little by little, I tried to rearrange the once-again-blank pages to the best of my ability.

Having only superficially leafed through the written pages, I didn’t know what was going where or how. It took me several hours to put all that material back together somehow, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find out if I put it back together the same way the pen had conceived it.

What that pen wrote is what you are reading now.