It started with a single taste. Well, a munch really. Iâ€™ll leave the semantics to someone more knowledgeable but I became a self-proclaimed book worm after that very first nibble.
A couple days ago my mum left me and my 41 siblings in an abandoned manor with an impressive library. On the pages of a moldy leather bound Encyclopaedia Britannica, I hatched and took that fated bite. The thick paper tasted like brittle dust infused with hints of jasmine, collected after decades of blossoming, and enlightenment. I consumed the written word and learned much of the world I would never experience. The history of exotic Egypt and its ancient hieroglyphics, the inner workings of clocks and cogs, the current practices and theory of musick. The fat volume I feasted on lasted but two days before I had to seek more sustenance.
My siblings chose not to discriminate against the types of books they feasted on. I, however, took my time choosing my next meal. I deliberately took tiny nibbles of various books, sampling each page till I found something appetizing. I preferred my culinary literature to be of the seafaring variety, especially those with a pirate flare. There was just something divine about the gritty, salty flavouring those pages embodied. Such deliciousness just for me!
I was oblivious to the passage of time and the destruction my insatiable appetite caused. In a lazy eye blink, my siblings and I grew plump on the irreplaceable books that nourished our metamorphosing bodies. I bore a special place among my beloved nautical pages, spinning a cocoon of silken threads about my body.
A sound sleep claimed my mind and I dreamed of pirate ships made of paper mache and cloth sails with jumbled words splashed across the fabric, splashing across chartreuse seas. I paid little heed to my transformation, preferring to indulge in my whimsical fantasies until it was too late. And so I stayed, burrowed deeply in the only book I had ever loved, with nothing but eternity and my infinite imagination to keep me company.