There is a library – it is ephemeral and intangible and it exists both only in the minds of those who have lost its’ contents and in a spiritual plane that can only be encountered when death has taken you. It is a library that exists of burned books – its contents in a perpetual state of conflagration, burning embers, charred pages, but the words themselves are alight still on those shelves. The Librarian is an angel of fire whose vestments contain the souls of those poor authors who have lost their works to the fires of ignorance, which burn much more brightly than the sparks of knowledge that have sparingly been nurtured in our short time on this earth.
On its shelves sit the tomes lost in Alexandria, and the works of the Talmud and Torah and all the exegesis that has ever been made cinder in the toilings of Inquisitions and pogroms and Holocausts, lost works of the Buddha and of Islam and scientific treatises that would have changed the world immeasurably for the better. Every book caught in house-fires and those locked in the minds unwritten but burned at the stake for witchcraft and heresy; these are the works that fill the endless array of corridors that library.
And roaming those stores, still questing for knowledge, are souls that have been and souls that will be, that thirst for understanding and meaning and rationality; old souls and young souls that seek answers to questions that can only be envisioned after taking in all the materials that were and are and will be added to the stacks that make up the Burned Library. They are searching for their own sake, and for each others’, and for yours.
You need not believe in this, in them, in the Library itself. It holds enough knowledge and wisdom and atrocity to be its’ own entity. It will be just fine without you – eternal.