Library

It's the silliest thing, my fascination with libraries and stockpiles of books: I adore them. The smell of well-aged pages cuts through any gloom to my heart like hot chocolate after a walk in the chilly Cleveland rain. I love hunting the shelves for the gems I've already discovered, for the obscure favorites no one else treasures. On lucky days, I'll find a couple. Libraries thrum with the promise of knowledge, of adventure, of new ideas to explore barefoot on thick grass or old ruminations to ponder reclined in a pine forest. The air of libraries with the sympathetic beat of fond memories and the introduction of possibilities. For all their quiet power, my library cards lie lost, forgotten, unused. My explorations of bookshelves new and old remain bounded by the strict limits of my overexercised wallet. My bookshelves remain stunted and dusty. The irreparable damage books have done to my reading habits is the inspiration that I might produce the same and the birth of characters whose lives are not yet bonded to the page.