(some background info for the curious- the prompt was something along the lines of "if you were on a deserted island, which five books would you take with you and why?"
i nearly died- thankfully, i was able to add a twist to the prompt and save my sanity.
constructive criticism is my number one goal, atm.
< 3)
Blue.
That's what I first remember.
One moment, I'm cruising along in a gigantic yacht made of dreams and desires at 25 knots, and next-?
blue.
Not a bright, striking cobalt, nor a subdued shade of sapphire; it's actually more of a filtered cerulean.
But it's still blue, nonetheless. I'm in a fetal position, in an unknown place, pondering blue. Suddenly, just as swiftly as I regained consciousness, my brain nonchalantly registers my oxygen deprived state and sends a casual signal to my legs to start pumping against the dark and to the light- there's an awkward resistance against the skin on my legs and when I utter a quick gasp after abruptly feeling again, I choke on salt and pristine water.
So I'm in the ocean.
I'm in the ocean.
I don't react quite as I should; instead of kicking for my life to the surface, I mingle around the fish in the ultramarine for a bit more before slowly trapezing to the sun's critical glare. I surface with a giddy little splash, and breathe once more- the sudden rush of oxygen awakens my survival instinct- adrenaline is now coursing through my veins, telling me to swim or die. I choose the former.
My plane of view is nothing but shimmering cerulean expanses, dotted by little floating-
Floating-
Books?
I pull myself against the gentle ebb of the tide to one of the damp books and I study the cover.
It's blank.
I swim away.
But they're everywhere, I now notice, and I suddenly realize these were the volumes I had kept tucked away in my library- all the books I've ever read, all the books I've ever wanted to read, and all the other books my subconscious felt I should be aware of.
There's a moment of reflection before I glimpse around; my eyes skipping over the dime store novels and pausing on the passionately bound treasures, but none can compare to the thick, frayed spine which I abruptly notice before me.
It's covered in soft leather and its pages are a deep cream colour and there's something about it that sings to me in a language whenever the water slips over the volume's intricate binding.
My hands reach for the sublime codex, but it the sea takes it from me - teasing me, testing me - and I follow with an insane determination to devour the transcendent opus that such a radiant work as this must protect.
My mind isn't working quite the way it should- the past is not noted and the future is not believed. All I know is that I must keep swimming for the book- never mind why or for what reason. The purpose was the action- the action was the purpose. I am still paddling through the comfortably warm water - hoping for anything and regretting nothing - when I see the waves softly carry the book - my book - to a little sliver of yellow.
The dull, muted islet seems to sparkle and shimmer to my weary eyes- the waves pull me in and I'm padded in delicate ribbons of emerald seaweed by the time I slide onto the cashmere shore.
And my heart is joyous because I can hear the book's song.
My feet are bloodied by the diamonds embedded in the beach, but I ignore the scarlet trail behind me and I keep moving forward, forward, to the trilling parchment.
I stumble- I fall.
My eyes are filled with powdered glass and my bones are shattered by the garnet spirals embedded in the shore and I feel no pain because I have reached the song and the singer. My fingers tremble when I touch the majestic grooves and indentations- the trembling overtakes my entire body and I slowly let myself cry.
I feel time slowing to a soft end-
The book is silent.
I pause: this leather cover holds something divine inside- some beautiful magnum opus, the thoughts of a demi-god, the musings of Gaia and Uranus- maybe even the answers to all the questions humans have ever asked, all the questions humans will ever ask, and all the questions humans have been afraid to ask.
I pry the damp cover open and a soft wind picks up and shuffles the smooth pages-
It's blank.
It's blank!
The pain that I hadn't felt is suddenly coursing through my body, and I collapse on the treacherous pages- wailing and moaning and grieving for something that I never had. I sleep through a tremulous night, contemplating suicide.
When I awaken again, my eyes sting as I suddenly remember home; when I reminisce, I reminisce of rousing emotions and not things- I cannot remember anything about home but how it feels. I pull myself to the book and ask it why - why - was I here?
It answers slowly, singing a passionate song of humanity, and its pages turn to The Tale of Genji.
I slowly swallow the tale; my eyes water as I think of home.
I drift off to sleep with home and humanity on my chest.
day iv
I awake to the sun in my eyes and I say no.
No.
My throat is parched and my body is weak.
I pull the book to me and I start screaming at it- blood running down my cheeks in absence of tears.
My sanity is leaving me.
I'm pulling out my hair and gnawing on my hands and the book just watches my sudden revelations, and the bitter ink suddenly turns to Golding.
The Lord of the Flies.
It has chosen well.
I mutilate the paper, spitting and gasping at the words I've read once before- there is new meaning in 'Beelzebub' when one is toeing the edge of reason.
I sleep and dream nightmares.
day v
I'm dying. I'm dying.
I whisper to the book at dawn- I'm dying. The words it whispers back surprise me- 'I know'.
I rock myself back and forth on the yellow grains of sand, waiting for the book's answer.
It's nearly sunset when the breeze I have grown accustomed to visits my book, debating and wondering until it makes a decision and lets the pages rest once more.
I read by the starlight, devouring with my eyes instead of with my teeth-
When I sleep, the words resting on my lips reassure me; I know I shall live.
The Bible told me that I will.
day vi
The book is singing a different song today. It's soft and fresh and makes me feel alive once more. I am well rested today, and my body shows no signs of the damage of which it has endured. My mind had a beautiful sense of understanding, and I rest under the shade of the only tree on the island.
I feel rather calm.
There's a smile on my face that can't disappear- I feel perfect.
I decide that I will swim back to where I came from when the sun lowers itself back into the cerulean mass once more.
The book remains on the stretch of sand where I first tasted its antiquity on my tongue. I saunter to it, holding it to my beating chest for what I fear might be the last time.
The friendly breeze whirls around my hair once more, and I sit down with the book on my lap.
It's blank.
Somehow, I don't feel as angry as I did the last time the book remained silent. There's a small plume in a corner of the book and the black tears inside the shaft don't seem to empty out.
The book is silent.
The book is silent because I am the one writing its song.
/end
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I love your writing style. It's nice and eloquent, but not over-inflated. Though, I have to say that the use of the word "tome" is completely awful. It just has all the wrong connotations. A tome is an ancient manuscript, or gigantic book that is part of a larger work. It is nothing like a novel or work of literature. It has none of the same beauty or art inherent in the classics. 
