This fluorescent-lit room holds the key to enlightenment. You wouldn’t expect it, considering the monotony of the eggshell white walls, the repetitious shelving, and the boxed-in feel. An introvert’s paradise and a claustrophobe’s nightmare. The dull appearance does not aspire to greatness and wouldn’t prompt any thinker to creativity. The rows upon rows of talking heads would suggest a life beyond their humidity-controlled cage.
Millions of ideas, the brainchildren of humanity. Thinkers from ancient times and yesterday, side by side, bringing their thoughts and experiences into neatly bound ink and paper.
Letter follows letter, forming word after word, into sentences, into paragraphs and chapters, arguments, settings, plot, facts. They bring the world to form, a nebulous existence into concrete meaning.
The triumphs and mistakes of our fathers are chronicled in their own words. They aren’t static or stagnant, but active and dynamic. We struggle the same, through politics, enlightenment, bigotry, sacrifice, and love.
We can build our own words and thoughts; put them together like they taught us. We add to the vast realm of knowledge, knowing one day down the road, someone will find solidarity with a likeminded soul, just as we are now.
The history and future of the world are within these walls, nestled in an orderly and precise row, given number and location, rank and file, between their friends of similar topic and ideal. May we learn from them as not to repeat ourselves. I would hate for man to be a broken record.
