Inspiration, I've been told, does not come from sitting in a library. One spot in one room, surrounded by endless tales and stories, cannot simply bring forth genius. Yet somehow, I am inspired. I am intrigued by the texts nestled together—by the words waiting to be discovered and uncovered from the light, or heavy, dust. Does each book feel comfortable where it is placed? Perhaps there is a silent debate occurring between the Bronte sisters who are forever placed on the same shelf. Does Charlotte feel jealous whenever Anne is chosen over her? Emily may want her words of emotion placed in the middle, or first, rather than coming last due to alphabetical order. In the History section, how exactly do the Holocaust victims feel about having to stare at the Furer each day and night? There may be a hint of victory sung in the beautiful Hebraic language whenever a child, newly learned in German history, pokes his little fingers in the eyes of Hitler. But how do the Germans feel about this part of the library? Do they move to the Hebrew dictionary to understand the sad Jewish song, seeking forgiveness or redemption? One cannot walk past Philosophy or Science without hearing the incessant clatter of discussion over truth, reality, and star dust. Is it possible to sit with both Kierkegaard and Niche, a big mug of tea in hand, and chat about the weather? Maybe not, seeing as the library is a “no drinks allowed” kind of place. And, furthermore, the two probably cringe at the idea of such a trivial topic. A library is a place filled with wonder. Every book, every page, reveals one more piece of the intricately made human mind. I am inspired. I am intrigued by the facets of human emotion, human expression. Words are true; words are deceptive. Words bring hope; words bring despair. Words speak beauty; words speak death. Words are alive, and their home is the library.