Wall to wall, this room holds memories, not just of me, but of others as well. Its nostalgic perfume brims of good times, of bad times. Alive is this place, as words can mend and words can soar. Brilliance, hidden behind each cover, patiently waiting to be unraveled. To be heard, to be read, to become the thought of another.
This place, this dwindling place, where many search only when professors profess academia upon the halls. When grades are met in standard of ones knowledge to paper. But this place, though slowly forgotten. Thrives among many though they be few. Like the stem of dandelion, hundreds spread, upon a single room.
In this place, all senses come to life. The aroma of old pages, of new pages, drift in comfort to the mind. The touch of books, of words, silent, blended, rough, smooth. Rippled with wrinkles of excessive lectures, or obsession to discover.
Each row, each shelf, holding a billion thoughts, a billion dreams, a billion words. All huddled in …